You Know What Happened to the Other One
by Quietlymischievous
Summary: Banishing a sibling was not an easy decision to make. Mycroft knew this because Sherlock wasn't the first.
1. Chapter 1

The opening dialogue and the characters are not mine, I just borrowed them for a bit.

* * *

"Oh, Sherlock! What have you done?"

* * *

"Don't be absurd. I am not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion. You know what happened to the other one."

"Hardly merciful, Mr Holmes."

"Regrettably, Lady Smallwood, my brother is a murderer."

* * *

Mycroft sat at the table, the elegant leaded windows behind him letting in the last rays of the dying light. He steepled his hands in front of him and stared into the distance, too caught up in his thoughts to hear the floorboards announce the intruder.

The voice was one he thought he would never hear again, so familiar, yet changed, older. He had mistakenly thought the owner dead. "It's still difficult, is it? Condemning your sibling to what you know is certain death? I thought it would have gotten easier by now."

Mycroft rubbed his eyes with a thumb and a finger as he breathed a great sigh. "So, you are alive, too."

His sibling made a slow walk around the table, stopping behind his chair to whisper silkily in his ear. "Did you think otherwise, dear brother?"

Mycroft slammed his palms down on the polished tabletop in anger. "Yes! I identified your corpse! You let me think my actions had indirectly led to your death."

"So sorry, Mycroft. It was necessary." The smile held hints of the young, innocent child he had once loved dearly. The eyes were different, though, cold and icy.

"Necessary? It was necessary?" Mycroft stood and grabbed Sherlock's twin by the wrist. "I sent you away to protect you. They didn't want to put you in prison, they wanted to execute you. I sent you…"

The wrist was jerked out of his grasp and then they were nose to nose, breathing the same air. "You sent me to my death, Mycroft. As soon as they had me out from under your influence, they tried to kill me," Sherrin replied with a growl.

"No! I arranged your exile to keep you safe. If you had remained in England, they would have hanged you! They… Oh, no…" Mycroft gasped, staggering back to lean against the edge of the table. It all suddenly became so clear. He had missed it at the time. Anger had clouded his mind. And sentiment, too. Sentiment had always made it difficult to see clearly, especially when it came to Sherlock and Sherrin.

Fifteen years later, standing in the half-dark with another that had somehow managed to escape death's grasp, the clouds parted and he could see what he could not before. Colonel Bentley had been a little too eager to take the young Holmes under his wing, promising to guide Sherrin into a new life, away from the sins of her past. No one was to know that the youngest Holmes had committed treason to save Sherlock.

Sherrin studied Mycroft's horrified visage and frowned, feeling the bubble of hate in her chest slowly deflate. It left her feeling somewhat disoriented and dizzy. "You really didn't know, did you?" She backed up until she felt the chair against her legs, and sat heavily.

"No, I didn't, Sherrin. I meant for it to be a way to keep you alive." Mycroft reached out for her hand, running a thumb over her knuckle before pulling back.

"Well, this is quite anticlimactic," she sighed.

"Sherrin," Mycroft said quietly. "For what it is worth, I am truly sorry."

She didn't look at him, didn't meet his eyes, but Mycroft could see the tears threatening to fall from her lashes. She continued to study the empty table in front of her, tracing the grain of the wood with her finger.

"I could bring you back, you know? I hear there is going to be an opening for a Consulting Detective."

She tried to laugh, but it came out as a sob. "You know I was always rubbish at deductions."

"Yes, your talents tended to lean towards a keyboard and coding. Still, you weren't all that bad. I think you might be able to handle the job. You might just have an advantage over Sherlock as you understand the emotions behind motive." Mycroft slid his hand across the tabletop, intending to offer his handkerchief. Instead of taking the cloth from him, she reached out and hooked her smallest finger around his corresponding digit and gave a gentle tug. He returned the tug, feeling it mirrored somewhere deep in his chest.

Their hands stayed linked during several minutes of silence. Finally, she released his finger and took the handkerchief. She dabbed at the wetness on her cheeks, meeting his gaze. "Thank you all the same, Mycroft. I already have a job I quite enjoy."

"Oh?" Mycroft raised his brow in curiosity.

She smiled, a genuine smile, this time. "Yes. It seems I have quite the talent as a hacker. I could commandeer every computer or television screen in the country for my own purposes if I wanted to. But don't worry, Mycroft. I'll leave world domination to you."

"Yes, well," Mycroft shifted in his seat, "now that I know you are alive, how can I reach you if I so desire?"

"Here," she held her hand open, "let me have your mobile."

Mycroft looked at the screen when she handed the device back to him. "Sharon Ford? That's not a very original name."

She laughed, "Yes, but Sherrin Fforde Elizabeth Holmes was a bit pretentious for a lowly computer boffin like me."

Mycroft couldn't help but chuckle in return, "Yes, I suppose it was. Will you come and say goodbye to Sherlock before he leaves?"

She shook her head, fighting the tears welling up again. "No. It's best if he doesn't know I'm alive. I will keep an eye on him, though. Maybe I can help him one day. Maybe I can save him again."

Not long after, she shouldered her bag and hugged Mycroft tightly. He smoothed a hand down her raven curls before letting go, taking the time to create a shrine for this memory in his own Mind Palace. "Please be careful, Sherrin. Your loss would break my heart… again." She nodded and was gone.

She didn't try to contact him, but knowing of her illicit activities he was able to track her as she made her way around the globe. She never caused too much harm, staying just under the radar. She was quite good at what she did.

He lost track of her in India, two days before Sherlock was to be exiled and the same day the database of MI6 was breached. The report he received about the incident stated that nothing sensitive was viewed and the hacker logged out exactly thirty-four seconds after breaching the firewall. It looked like Sherrin's handiwork. She and Sherlock were thirty-four years old, surely not a coincidence. Mycroft supposed it was a message for him, an unusual way for her to say 'hello'.

Mycroft didn't contact her until the day of Sherlock's exile. He sat in the back of the black car as Sherlock's plane touched down seven minutes after taking off. He fired off a text to the number she had programmed into his phone.

You? –MH

Yes. Did you like it? –SF

It was effective. Thank you.-MH

You are most welcome. Tell Mummy and Daddy I will stop in at Easter.-SF


	2. Chapter 2

Sherrin woke, sensing she was not alone. "Daniel, is that you, love?' She pulled the covers tighter around herself, not wanting to get up yet. She was having trouble adjusting to the time change. Up until yesterday morning, she had been living on North American Pacific Time for almost a month.

She felt the bed dip and a kiss was placed upon her brow. "I'm here, Sherrin. I've got to go back out. I've got to meet someone at eight."

"But you didn't come back last night." She rolled over to face her lover, inhaling his fresh from the shower scent.

He grinned, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to her lips. "Sorry. Mister Kappas wasn't willing to give me any information about his smuggling activities, so I had to break into his suite while he was passed out drunk at the bar. I just came back to shower and change suits."

"I told you I could get the information you wanted in half the time with little effort. Why won't you let me help you?" She yawned and stretched.

He curled his arm around her, pulling her in for a long kiss. When his lips released hers, he pressed his forehead to her brow, loath to move away. "I know you could, Sherrin, and I appreciate that you would do that for me. But, you are trying to give up your illicit activities and I would never ask you to take them up again to help me. Besides, last night I got a warning to keep you out of trouble."

She sat up straight, fully awake now. "What do you mean you got a warning? From whom?"

Daniel smiled, "Your brother."

"What did he look like?"

"Tall, well dressed with an arrogant air about him. And he had that same public school accent you have."

"I don't have a public school accent," she huffed.

Daniel chuckled, "Yes, you do. I don't hear it very often, mostly when you are half asleep, like a minute ago, or are zoned out doing that bloody memory technique thing."

"I do not!"

"Yes, my pretty little genius, you do. And you talk in your sleep, too."

She rolled her eyes, ignoring his words. "I have no idea what you are going on about. Just what did Mycroft tell you?"

He shook his head in amusement, "Sherrin with an 'E' and an 'I', and Mycroft with a… What kind of name is Mycroft anyway?"

She shrugged, "You have no idea. You should hear the other one."

"The other one?" Daniel raised a brow in interest. "There's another one of you?"

"Oh, never you mind." She scowled, growing impatient. "I asked you what Mycroft said."

"Nothing too bad. He just said I had better take care of you and to keep you out of trouble. He seemed to be under the impression that you were skating on thin ice. Apparently, 'Gemini' has just made Interpol's Most-Wanted list."

"Damn! I thought I had been more careful. I guess it is a good thing that I am giving up my life of crime to marry my handsome bloke. I don't suppose that MI6 would appreciate one of its agent's fiancé being arrested for cyber crimes, would they?"

Daniel shook his head, "No, I don't think that would advance my career at all. Wait a minute, I know someone named Mycroft. Wasn't your name Holmes before? Cor, your brother is Mycroft Holm….?"

She interrupted him, leaping off the bed and pushing him out of the bedroom. "You better go or you are going to be late."

"Sherrin!" He protested as she shoved his suit jacket into his hands and guided him to the door. "Don't think I will forget this, Sherrin. We are discussing your past just as soon as I get back." He grabbed her around the waist and gave her a lengthy snog before stepping out the door.

"Sure." She gave him a sweet smile and closed the door behind him. Leaning back against the wall, she blew out a breath and began giggling. Leave it to Mycroft to confront her husband-to-be. She had never been able to keep a boyfriend as a teen because Mycroft had scared them all away. And, after finding out she was alive only four and a half months ago, he was starting it again. "Mycroft, you bloody wanker. You won't have to worry about me going to prison for hacking into the MI6 database because I am going to murder you." She pulled her mobile out of her dressing gown pocket, intending to call Mycroft and give him a piece of her mind.

"Sherrin put the phone down," the deep baritone instructed. "Mycroft didn't talk to him. I did."

The phone dropped out of her hand and thudded onto the floor at her feet. She swallowed thickly and her voice quaked, "Sherlock?"

"Hello, little sister. It has been a long time." He drawled keeping his face expressionless, and she couldn't work out how he felt about seeing her.

"Sherlock…" She hugged her dressing gown tighter around her. "What...? How?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You are a highly intelligent woman, Sherrin. Do try to make it all the way to the end of a sentence? It's most unbecoming. Almost as annoying as that fake, generic, London accent you have adopted."

"Piss off, you cheeky git!" She growled, trying but failing to suppress a smile.

"That's my girl," Sherlock grinned and stepped forward to wrap his arms around her.

Oh, God, he smelled just like she remembered. He was a little taller and a little thinner, but he was still her beloved twin. Even though they were fraternal instead of identical, they had always had a special bond that defied words and she had felt that half of herself had been missing since she had gone into hiding long ago. It felt so good to be in his presence again.

Sherlock lay his head on top of hers, and she couldn't stop the tears that insisted on leaking from her eyes. He pulled back, holding her at arm's length. She saw him go into deductive mode, his eyes roaming over her, "You are not normally so emotional. You are suffering from jet lag. You flew into Glasgow from," he paused, sniffing, "America's west coast. Los Angeles?"

"San Francisco. You took the window seat on the train here and," she paused, blinking away the tears so she could see him better. She could make deductions, it just didn't come as easily to her as her brothers. "You… you… Oh, I don't know. You've got ink on your wrist." She sighed, frustrated at being unable to decide what to make of it. "What did you do? Sign autographs?"she said jokingly.

Sherlock grinned at her and she noticed the lines bracketing his smile. They looked good on him. It had been almost sixteen years since they had last seen each other. She had, of course, followed him in the press, but it wasn't the same as seeing someone in person.

"Yes, actually there was a young brother and sister that recognised me and asked for an autograph," he admitted shyly. "And yes, I had the window seat. See, you can make deductions."

"Oh, Sherlock," she sighed. "I missed you, so much."

"I missed you. The quality of family gatherings has been lacking without you. Mycroft has always been annoying and since you have been away, he is positively dull as dishwater. "

"Like he wasn't always that way?" She wiped at her tears, leading him to the small kitchen area and putting the kettle on.

"Yes, I suppose you are right. We were the lively ones, weren't we?"

Soon they sat together at the table with a cup of tea and a plate of toast in front of each of them. "So, how did you find out I am alive? Did Mycroft tell you?" She asked, watching him spread marmalade on his slice.

"No." He took a bite of toast and she waited patiently. "I spent some time with Mummy and Daddy after I had a relapse and overdosed. Mummy had a new picture of you on their dresser."

"Oh, Sherlock. Mycroft told me about your relapse. I'm afraid that was my fault; I hijacked the airwaves and put Moriarty's picture up. I was trying to save you and instead I pushed you back into using again. I am so sorry."

"Sherrin, you are no way responsible for the choices I make, just as I am not responsible for yours. I was high before I left the bunker they had been holding me in. I bribed one of the guards to bring me the cocktail of drugs because I was bored." He shrugged, assuming she understood the motive.

She didn't know why, but she laughed. She and her twin were quite the pair. They both were geniuses, one a drug addict cum detective and the other a hacker, wanted by the police in at least seven countries. Some people would say it was a great waste of their talents. Oh, wait a minute, Mycroft was saying that constantly. She laughed until Sherlock joined her.

Finally, when her sides were hurting from laughing so much, she sat back and studied her brother, feeling her mood shift from jovial to sombre. "Why are you here, Sherlock?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest.

He raised any eyebrow at her, "You know why I am here, Sherrin."

"You've been sent to find me and bring me in, haven't you?" She began worrying her lip between her teeth.

"I was sent to find Gemini, the hacker, yes," he kept his tone flat and his face expressionless.

"And you have found her?" she mimicked his unemotional façade.

"Only Mycroft and I know Gemini is a woman. I tracked her here, to Glasgow, where she gave me the slip. Having lost sight of my target, I decided to visit my sister and her fiancé before going back to London."

She nodded, "Which means Mycroft had a secondary mission for you. So, will you be returning to London alone or will you be able to pick up Gemini's trail and return him or her to the proper authorities?"

Sherlock pulled an envelope out of his coat and slid it across the table. "That depends."

Sherrin slowly retrieved the envelope and opened the document contained within. "Upon what, brother dear?"

"Mycroft thinks you will find that a reasonable offer. The pay is quite good and you will be able to come back to London with no fear of being prosecuted."

"In return for… ?"

"Your services as a consultant to or possibly a permanent position with the British Home Office's Cybersecurity Division. It's up to you, dear sister."

"And if I decline?" She scanned the documents, looking up briefly to meet his eye.

"Then I regret to inform you that I will be taking you back to face prosecution for your many crimes and you fiancé will be arrested for harbouring a criminal."

She sighed, laying the papers down and rubbing at her eyes. "Mycroft likes to play dirty, does he not?"

"Yes, he always did."

"And you agreed to be a part in this? You are really going to take me in if I don't sign?"

Sherlock stiffened, "I don't have a choice in the matter either. This is part of my penance for murdering Magnussen."

Sherrin rolled her eyes. "Let me guess, if either of us chooses not to cooperate, we both lose? I go to prison and you are sent on a suicide mission."

He simply said, "Yes."

"And you have not been able to come up with a plan to get around his offer?"

"Mycroft wrote up the proposal himself."

"Oh," she sighed. "Nary a loophole?"

"Nope," Sherlock replied.

"What if I don't want to work for the Home Office?"

"I guess you could always call cousin Quentin. He is in some position of importance over at MI6. He would be glad to have you on his team. At least, you might get to see your boyfriend more."

"Fiancé," she corrected, flipping through the papers. She recognised Mycroft's hand in the wording of the document. It, indeed, left her no other option except to try to disappear again, dragging Daniel with her. Her brother knew she would be unwilling to part ways with her lover. Mycroft may eschew the notion of romantic love, but he was not averse to using another's attachments to his own advantage.

"Yes. Congratulations, by the way. He suits you." Sherlock nudged her outstretched hand on the table top and curled his smallest finger around hers.

She returned the grasp, even as a blush washed over her cheeks. "Thank you, Sherlock. He is ever so good to me. I started severing my ties with the criminal world because of him. I don't want any of it to come between us or cause him grief. He has a promising career at MI6. He's good at what he does."

"I wish you well. Now, before I go," Sherlock finished his tea and stood. "Do you have any words I should pass along to our despotic brother?" He half expected her to tell him to tell Mycroft to 'fuck off', but she didn't. Instead, he could see her weighing their options and he noted the sparkle in her eye when she made her decision.

"Tell him that I will acquiesce, but only if my own stipulations are met. He should find them agreeable. Tell him it was your idea," she grinned. "That should put him in a right strop."

Sherlock leant forward and placed a kiss upon his sister's cheek, then began pulling his gloves on in preparation to leave. "Shall I ring Quentin on my way back to London for you?"

"No. I have his mobile number. He contacted me several months ago. He told me if I ever breached his beloved MI6 firewall again, he would come after me personally. Then he offered me a job."

"I am surprised he didn't send one of his pet agents to get you," Sherlock mused.

Sherrin smiled and wagged her brows, "He did. How do you think I met Daniel?"


	3. Chapter 3

Sherrin took the chair Q offered, sitting heavily with an exasperated sigh. "Oh, thank goodness. How do they do it? I just don't understand."

"What don't you understand?" Q chuckled as she slipped her feet out of her expensive shoes and joyfully wiggled her toes.

"How do Moneypenny and all the others walk around in these things all day? It's only a quarter past eleven and I already want to exchange these things for a pair of trainers or, even better, a pair of slippers."

Q smiled down at her, "Having problems coming to terms with the dress code?"

"Yes, I've never had one before."

"I do understand. Pyjamas are much more comfortable work attire, but hardly acceptable for the halls of MI6." Quentin smiled at his cousin. "Look, finish that project for me and I will let you go home early."

Sherrin pulled a memory stick out of her skirt pocket and handed it to him.

"Oh, alright," he said, somewhat taken aback. "Enjoy the rest of the day. If you will start with the other one first thing tomorrow, I would appreciate it."

Sherrin stood, holding her shoes by the straps in one hand and fishing in her skirt pocket again with the other.

Q didn't know why he was surprised she handed him another memory stick. She was a Holmes after all. Maybe he was going to have to move her from the mundane research desk into something more challenging. He could put her to work helping him upgrade the database firewall since she was intimately acquainted with its weaknesses. He waved to Bond to come in, where the double-O waited at the office door. "Finish that third project tomorrow and I might just find something more challenging for you to do."

She kissed his cheek, getting a raised brow from Bond. "Thanks, Quent… sorry, Q. I'll see you tomorrow." Sherrin stopped a few feet in front of Bond, eyeing him up and down in the same manner he was looking at her. "Here, give him this." She pulled the third stick out and handed it to the bewildered agent. "Bye."

Bond came to stand beside Q, watching the raven haired goddess march barefoot through Q-Branch, swinging her shoes at her side as she went. "New employee, Q?"

"Yes. She's my newest hacker," he said, pocketing the third stick.

"I'll talk to you later, Q. I think I need to talk to her about my, um, laptop." James started forward but stopped when Q put a hand on his shoulder.

"You don't want to bother that one Bond. She's not like the rest of them," Q waved a hand to indicate the people in the room beyond. "She's very smart, very engaged to one of your fellow agents and, most importantly, family."

James turned to face Q. "Family?"

Q nodded and James considered the facts for a minute before deciding she was worth the risk of infuriating his Quartermaster. He buttoned his suit jacket and gave Q his most sincere smile. "I promise I will be nothing less than a gentleman."

Q let Bond get to the office door before he called to him. "James?"

"What Q? She's getting away." He looked back over his shoulder.

"She is my cousin, but, her older brothers are Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes."

James spun on the spot, "Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes?"

Q smiled and nodded.

"Mycroft, I am the bloody British Government, Holmes is her brother. Oh, bother!" He growled, his shoulders sinking in defeat.


	4. Chapter 4

An ode to pickaxes. A fluffy, fun piece, that is my perception of what might occur in Q-Branch on a slow day.

* * *

"He's not here, Bond. But, when he gets back I can let him know you got clearance from medical to return to active duty," Sherrin said from where she stood at the console, her back to him.

"Bloody hell, you are as bad as him. Is it a familial mutation or something?" Bond asked, coming to stand beside her. "Do the whole lot of you have eyes in the back of your head?"

She turned, taking in his look of bewilderment. "Not really. We are just more observant than most. It is a family trait, true. Although Q and I are not as good at it as my two brothers. Our talents lie more here," she said, nodding towards the electronic paraphernalia surrounding them.

"Observational savants." Bond mused, brow furrowing in thought at the blocks on the screen.

"Yes, I guess that would be an appropriate term."

"How did you know it was me, though? It could have been any number of people entering the office. And how did you know I have been released back to active duty? I just left medical, surely the new nurse hasn't had the time to compose an email yet."

It was her turn to frown. Making deductions was something that didn't come as easily to her as her brothers, but still, it was something that her brain did automatically and she was usually at a loss to explain how she made the leap from the input of random data to her conclusions. She tried to understand the route her brain had just taken and put it into words, "The first part was easy. Your cologne and your gait, that's how I knew it was you. The rest is a little harder. Most of it is just guessing at the most likely conclusion." She shrugged, hoping she was making sense. "Beneath the smell of your cologne, which is lovely by the way, you have that slightly antiseptic smell that you only get from spending some time in medical. From there, I guessed that you had been to see them for your evaluation and since you weren't grumbling or slamming things, I assumed you had been cleared to return to duty. Did I get it right?"

"Quite right," He said, stepping forward and placing his hands on either side of the console against which she leant, effectively caging her in. "Would you like to join me elsewhere and I can show you how fit for duty I am." His voice purred in her ear as his lips grazed her cheek.

She laughed nervously and placed a hand on his well-toned chest, stopping him from advancing any further. "While I appreciate your interest, Mr Bond, I am afraid I have to decline your offer."

Bond looked at Sherrin with those pale blue eyes and pushed ever closer, ignoring her feeble attempt to push him back. His hips slotted against her,s and she felt a spark of desire light deep inside of her. Now, she understood why so many had fallen into his bed. "Because your brother and your cousin might be watching?" he whispered, nudging her nose with his own.

Sherrin cleared her throat and attempted to straighten her spine. "No, Mr Bond. Because I am in a monogamous relationship with a man I love very much. Besides, I don't believe you want to bed me for any other reason than I present a challenge."

"Is that a sheep?" he asked, pointing over her shoulder to the centre screen.

"Yes." She nodded, relieved that his focus had been shifted away from her. She didn't actually think he meant any harm, but she would hate for her fiancé to wander through Q-Branch and see her grinding hips with another man, no matter how innocent her part in it was.

"What the hell do you do with that?" he asked as he stepped back, obviously puzzled.

"Well, you can make shears and get wool from it or you can kill it and get meat to use as food. There are also cows, chickens, wolves, ocelots and horses. The great thing about this game is that there is something called Redstone. You can use it to make...Oh, sorry...I...uh..." She stopped herself, realising he probably didn't want that much information.

He shook his head, "Right then, I'll let you get back to it." He rubbed a hand down the back of his neck as he carefully backed away from her. "If you will just…"

"Tell Q you are back on the rota?"

He nodded and turned, leaving without another word. Sherrin could not help but laugh. She knew what he was thinking. Over the years, she and her twin had been called them all: Boffin, Geek, Nerd, Techie, Weirdo, and Freak. If one was going to survive childhood being an eccentric genius one had to develop a rather thick skin. Now, at her age, it just made her smile. She was proud of her brain and what she could do. She shrugged and went back to what she had been doing before.

She was not sure how much time passed between Bond leaving and Quentin arriving, but it must have been a while, for she had finished what she had been working on and was already laying the foundation of her next grand design.

"You started without me?"

He startled her, causing her fingers to skid over the keys. Her avatar fell off the beam it had been standing on, ready to place the next block. "Oops!"

"Sorry, I thought you heard me come in?" Quentin held out a cup for her as he sipped his own.

"Thanks," She grabbed the mug and sipped greedily, thinking Q-Branch had the best coffee. "It's alright, I was just mucking about in creative mode. I guess I got more involved in it than I meant to."

"It looks fantastic. Who knew you could recreate the very round, London Eye with square blocks."

"I don't know, the scale seems off to me."

He studied the screen and sipped what she knew to be Earl Grey. "Maybe, ever so slightly, but only the two of us would recognise that."

"Sherlock would." She tapped the keys and saved her creation.

"Yes, I suppose so," Quentin hummed. "I am surprised you haven't introduced him to it yet."

"Oh, I did. John called me the next day and said Sherlock was using it to recreate a crime scene." She giggled, imagining what the Met would think of that.

"I don't doubt it. Interesting use of the game. I should probably call Notch and let him know. He would get a good laugh out of it. Shall we begin?"

"I'm ready." She slid the keyboard over for Quentin to log in. "Oh, I forgot to tell you that 007 was here earlier."

"Cleared by medical?"

"Yes."

"Good, I'll find him something to do later. For now, shall we see if we can defeat the Ender Dragon again?"

"Let's go."


	5. Chapter 5

"Sherlock! It's your sister's wedding." John pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger in frustration. "You can't play a recording of the Waltz you composed just for her. You have got to take your violin and play it for her yourself. The two of you once shared a womb for nine months, that should count for something!"

Sherlock placed the instrument into its case before turning. John was taken aback by the soft smile on his face. "Yes, John, but if I play the Waltz at the wedding, I cannot have the pleasure of actually dancing with my sister and I have missed dancing with her."

Daniel watched Sherrin as she laughed at something Sherlock said to her. The pair of them glided across the dance floor with more grace than any two people should be allowed. He was happy for her; she had been reunited with her family after so many years apart.

"She looks lovely. Does she not?" Mycroft asked, startling Daniel, who had not heard him approach.

"She always looks fantastic, even when she doesn't mean to, but, yes, she looks especially radiant today," Daniel replied, smiling to himself.

Mycroft shuffled his feet and cleared his throat before speaking. "You will take good care of her, won't you, Daniel?"

Daniel almost choked on the champagne. "Mycroft, I have been waiting for the 'you hurt my sister and I will have you murdered' speech since I found out you were her brother. 'Take good care of her' is not what I expected from you."

Mycroft continued to watch his siblings on the dance floor. "Yes, Daniel, while it is true that if you hurt her I will make sure it never happens again, Sherlock will make sure that any misery you cause her will be repaid one-thousand-fold upon you before you die a long, slow, painful death. And if for some reason Sherlock and I don't avenge her, her cousin also seems to be quite fond of her. I understand he has a bit of influence over a certain double-0 that has no qualms about taking a life."

Daniel couldn't help but grin, he liked Sherrin's family. "Good, we're all on the same page; someone hurts Sherrin and they die."

Yes, Sherrin had chosen a worthy partner. Mycroft touched his champagne flute to Daniel's upraised one. "Agreed!"


	6. Chapter 6

"007, what is your status?" Q stood over the console, his shoulders hunched and his words clipped. His eyes flicked away only a moment to check the reflection in the glass. Sherrin was still there, standing among the others. The only thing to belie her calm demeanour was the way she quietly twiddled the wedding rings on her finger.

Q-Branch waited, holding their collective breath while the only reply from the com was heavy breathing and the echo of footfalls on wet tarmac. It wasn't the first time things had gone pear-shaped and it certainly would not be the last. This time, however, it seemed to have hit so much closer to their hearts as it affected one of their own. Sherrin hadn't been working for MI6 very long, but she was well liked.

"Bond, please answer me. What is your status?"

"Give me a minute!" Bond growled. "I can't get through the door."

There were several grunts, a groan and then the sound of splintering wood. A clamouring silence followed and Q checked to make sure their connection hadn't been severed."007. What. Is. Your. Status. Please?"

"Q?" His reply was followed by slow measured breaths.

"Yes, Bond."

"Are you alone?"

Q reached over and picked up the earpiece, slowly settling it into place before transferring the call to the wireless device. "Go ahead. Our conversation is private. Bond? Are you alright?"

"Yes, Q. I've found them." Bond's voice was hesitant and it made cold chills run down Q's spine.

"You located Agent Whitmore and the Ambassador's daughter?"

"Yes, Q."

Q kept his voice calm, knowing those in the room behind were hanging on his every word. "Bond, their status, please."

"Not good."

Q picked up the phone from the desk and let his fingers hover over the buttons. "Need I send a medical team?"

James slid down the wall and leant his head back against it, tearing his eyes away from the carnage contained within the small room. "No. It's entirely too late."

Q stood with his hands braced on the console for several minutes. It wasn't the first time he had lost an agent. This one stung so much more. He had lost family. He swallowed against the thick knot in his throat. Eventually, M would have to be told. For now, he had something more difficult to do. He pulled his spectacles off and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright, 007, stand down. I will alert the cleanup crew."

"Acknowledged. And, Q?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry. Tell her 'I'm sorry'."


	7. Chapter 7

"What the hell were you thinking? I thought since you had been," John stumbled over the next word, "away, that there was a kinder, gentler you. But no, you are the same insensitive machine you always were. Are you incapable of being empathetic?"

Lestrade approached Sherlock after John climbed into the taxi that had stopped just outside the yellow tape. "You two have a tiff or something?"

"John is disappointed in me," Sherlock sighed watching the cab disappear in the distance. "He thinks I overstepped my bounds in telling Mrs McElmurray she was partially responsible for her daughter committing suicide because the stepfather had been sexually abusing the girl since she was thirteen."

Lestrade nodded and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his coat and offered one to Sherlock. He shrugged when Sherlock waved the offer aside. "Sherlock, in John's defence, I don't think he knew that Miss McElmurray had confronted her mother with the facts of the abuse."

Sherlock nodded, still staring after John.

Lestrade took a drag on the cigarette and let the smoke out in a long sigh. "But, in your defence, I also don't think John knew Mrs McElmurray rejected her daughter's accusations because she loved her husband's money more than her daughter's safety and mental health."

"She is a vile woman that deserves more than a tongue lashing from me. See to it Lestrade." Sherlock stepped off the kerb, pulling his gloves on. "I'll email you my summary of the case."

"Don't bother, I think I have a pretty good grasp of what happened." Greg ground the cigarette out with his shoe. "Besides, I think you have something else of more importance to occupy your time."

"What now?" Sherlock's groaned when he saw the black car pull alongside him.

To Sherlock's surprise, Mycroft stepped out before the driver could come around and open the door. "Come with me. I need your help." Mycroft gestured to the inside of the car, speaking quietly, "It's a family matter."

"Something has happened to Sherrin?'' Sherlock asked as he climbed in the car.

"No, not exactly." Mycroft slid in beside his brother and tapped on the divider between them and the driver. The car moved forward and merged with the evening traffic. He settled back into the seat and pulled a file out of the briefcase at his feet

"Who?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed before widening in understanding. "When?" he corrected, opening the file. The only things inside were pictures, pictures of a particularly gruesome nature.

"Daniel and the individual under his protection were found brutally murdered, two and a half hours ago, in what was supposed to be a government safe house."

"Sherrin knows?" He had liked his brother-in-law and he knew Sherrin must be devastated. Sherlock shoved the distractions out of his mind and tried to concentrate on what Mycroft was saying.

Mycroft nodded, "Yes. Quentin said she went 'off the grid', as he put it, thirteen minutes later. Sherlock, I am afraid for her safety. Quentin and I are charged with finding the mole that did this," he stabbed a finger at the photos in Sherlock's possession. "It will take a Holmes to find a Holmes, so I need you to find Sherrin and ensure her safety."

"You think she might possibly harm herself?"

"I have no data on which to draw a conclusion. She was away for fifteen years, Sherlock. Do we really know her anymore?"

Sherlock scoffed at the idea, "Do people really do that?"

"What? Love with all their heart and lose the will to live once that love is gone? It happens, Sherlock. What would you do if your beloved doctor was so brutally taken away from you? What would you do once he was avenged and you faced living without him for the rest of your life? Would taking your own life never cross your mind?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat. When he finally spoke, his tone was subdued. "Have you contacted Mummy and Daddy?"

"Yes, but they have had no word from her so far. Quentin has her flat under surveillance just in case she comes back."

Sherlock pulled out his phone and began to type furiously. "Let me out at the nearest Tube station. She has informed me of the location of a few of her bolt-holes from her time away. I will have my Homeless Network scour the city's other prospective hiding places."

As Sherlock went to climb out of the car, he felt a tug on his sleeve. Mycroft looked up at him, and Sherlock could plainly see the usual mask his brother wore had fallen away. The worry and dread he felt were displayed all over his brother's face. "Find her, Sherlock. And please hurry."

* * *

Questions, comments or suggestions are welcome!


	8. Chapter 8

"Think, think, think!" Sherlock fisted his hands in his hair as he paced in circles. "Where could she be, John? Where could she be?"

"I don't know," John grabbed the collar of the Belstaff and yanked hard, pulling Sherlock back from where he was about to step into the path of the oncoming traffic. "But, if you don't watch where you are going you will not be able to help her at all." He led Sherlock to a low brick wall that surrounded someone's unkempt back garden. He sat and patted the space next to him. Sherlock dropped down and John watched as his friend twiddled his phone round and round on his thigh. Unable to tolerate it any longer, John reached over, snatching the phone from Sherlock's grasp and putting it in his own pocket. "Stop, you're getting all worked up and it's not helping her."

It was hard to watch Sherlock like this. Sure, Sherlock got restless and keyed up over a case, but John didn't think he had ever seen him this anxious or worried before. For that was what Sherlock was, worried. "Sherlock, just exactly how much is your sister like you? I know she doesn't do the deduction thing as much but does she…?" John ran a hand down his face, trying to find the right words.

"Have my impulsiveness and my self-destructive tendencies?" Sherlock supplied, resting his elbows on his knees and as he leant forward and ran his fingers through his hair for what John thought had to be the fourth or fifth time since they had met up at Baker Street half an hour ago.

John nodded sheepishly, then said,"Yeah, only I was going to add 'your proclivities for illicit substances'."

"Yes, John, she and I are amazingly alike, even for fraternal twins. She was my first friend," Sherlock said quietly. "We did everything together, including getting high. Although, she did have more restraint than I could seem to muster. She was my constant companion. They tried to separate us at school but we both acted out until they relented and put us back together. The desire persists to this day, I guess that is why I still prefer to have company when I go out."

John remained quiet, taking a moment to process and file away another piece of information regarding his mysterious friend. "Where do you think she is?"

"I don't know. She has been away too long for me to be able to predict her actions with any degree of accuracy. Years ago I would have been able to tell you exactly what she would have done. Now…" Sherlock's shrug was barely perceptable beneath the Belstaff.

"Alright, well let's go about this in another way. How about you take me through it, tell me what has been done so far to find her."

Sherlock took a deep breath, it was as good a place to start as any and maybe hearing it for himself would help him work out what to do next. "Mycroft and Quentin have people monitoring all means of public transportation. Most of her friends, outside of those at MI6, are criminal hackers. Quentin has taken the liberty to alert both of those groups to be on the look out for her. I personally have checked every bolt-hole in London and the surrounding area that I know she used while she was away. I've had my Homeless Network check every pub and crack den in the city, just in case, though I doubt she would seek solace in a pub. I've even checked every library, internet café, and bookstore she has been known to frequent, all without results. My first instinct was that she would have gone home, but alas, our parents have not seen her. I don't know where else to look, John. I have run out of places to check." Sherlock's voice rose at the end, betraying his frustration, and John thought he could detect a trace of panic.

"Alright, let's see," John took one of Sherlock's hands and gave it a squeeze. "What about places you went together as children? Did you have any particular hangouts? Places you went to get away when you were stressed or wanted to hide from each other?"

"I told you, John," Sherlock huffed as he absently rubbed his thumb over John's knuckles in return. "I checked the libraries and bookstores. And, Mummy has not seen her."

John laughed despite the seriousness of the conversation. "Right, uh, yeah. You both came by the title 'boffin' honestly. I suppose she wanted to be a pirate, too."

Beside him, Sherlock straightened and dragged in a great breath before uttering, "Oh! Of course!"

"What? What did I say?"

"You are brilliant, John. I should have thought of it before. My phone. Give me my phone." Sherlock began tugging at John's coat, trying to get to his mobile.

After a few minutes, they were in a black car and were being whisked away to the airport and the helicopter that awaited them there. John couldn't help but wonder if the government was footing the bill or if Mycroft was worth more than he originally thought.

"Don't worry, John. Her Majesty is not paying for this," Sherlock waved to the car and driver. "Not only is Mycroft the British Government, he is also excellent at investing his money."

John nodded; still amazed at the way Sherlock seemed to read his mind. "Sherlock, I am not like you. I can't look at you and deduce what you are thinking. Would you mind telling me why we are heading to your parent's home if they haven't heard from your sister?"

To John's surprise, Sherlock didn't huff or roll his eyes. "Remember I told you my first instinct was that she would return home?"

"Yes."

"I still believe it is the correct assumption."

"Alright, so where is she if she didn't go to your Mum and Dad's house?"

Sherlock leant his head back against the seat, remembering his childhood fondly. He and Sherrin had been happy children, despite the frequent assumptions to the contrary. One of them had rarely been seen without the other. Their parents often told the story of how the two toddlers communicated in a language that was uniquely their own, although Sherlock suspected that somewhere along the way Mycroft, being seven years their senior, had deciphered their twin speech for himself.

They each had been born with an instant friend and they had made the most of the situation, sharing their secrets and desires only with the other. They played pirates together and shared the love of bees. Sherlock had been there for her when she had her first broken heart and she had been the first one he had come out to. They had giggled over the fact that they had similar taste in men.

Their foray into drugs had been the beginning of the end, although they were unaware at the time. Sherrin had been just as willing as Sherlock to experiment with new substances and combinations of substances. But where her interest in getting high was purely for the fun and curiosity of it, Sherlock's had been fueled by the need to relieve boredom and allow him some means of focusing his racing mind, a skill that she had mastered on her own and he… hadn't.

"She's just like me John, she really is. We both have problems interacting with the world around us. We are socially awkward and it has been suggested more than once that we are probably somewhere 'on the spectrum', Asperger's was the most agreed upon." Sherlock noticed John's barely perceptible nod of understanding. "Although, you might argue-correctly in my opinion- that she doesn't seem to exemplify the typical qualities of such a 'diagnosis' or believe it to simply be Social Anxiety Disorder, as I assure you she, or rather we, suffer from some form of a Sensory Processing Disorder. She is just much better at hiding it than I am."

John didn't answer immediately. He was slightly stunned at the amount of information to which Sherlock had so willingly let him be privy and he pondered what it all meant in terms of Sherrin, because he was sure Sherlock probably wouldn't be telling him all this if it didn't have something to do with his fears for his sister's safety. "So, Sherlock, I am going to make a big leap here, and you can correct me if I am wrong, but you are afraid that your sister may temporarily lose her ability to cope in the light of losing her husband and you are afraid she might… what? Overdose? Choose suicide over attempting to cope?"

"Yes, John. Exactly!" Sherlock sat forward and unlatched the seatbelt as the airport came into view.

"Alright. I take it you know where she might be?"

"Yes, thanks to you. It's always you, John." Sherlock put his hand on John's thigh and gave a squeeze. "You really do keep me right."

"Not sure what I did, but as long as you know where to find her," John shrugged. "So, where is it we are going?"

Sherlock bolted out the door as soon as the car came to a stop. "Where else would you find a pirate, but a Pirate's Den?"


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock's parents stood in the open doorway watching as the helicopter hovered in the field just beyond the gate. As soon as the metal bird touched down, Sherlock shed his headset and was climbing out and striding towards the house. Damn him and those long legs, John thought as he fought his way through the long grass that writhed and undulated in the rotor wash. Once he was well clear of the blades he turned and gave a nod of thanks to the pilot.

John paused at the garden gate not wanting to intrude on the private moment between parents and son. He couldn't help but chuckle when Sherlock, arm around his Mum and hand placed lovingly on his Dad's shoulder, called back, "Come on, John." He was half tempted to pull out his phone and snap a picture of the trio just to prove that Sherlock really was human, but decided that the people that mattered to Sherlock already knew that. Instead, he swung open the gate and approached.

Mrs Holmes moved to grab John as soon as he was near enough and pulled him into a fierce hug. "Thank you for coming, love. We're all so upset over losing Daniel like that. Now, Sherry has gone and disappeared. You'll help him find her and bring back my little girl unharmed, won't you?"

"Come, Violet. Let Dr Watson, John," Mr Holmes corrected, "go. They aren't going to find Sherry standing in the garden, now are they?"

Ten minutes later Sherlock glided down the staircase dressed in jeans and a chambray shirt. John eyed the denim appreciatively as Sherlock bent over to tie the laces of his hiking boots. He wondered what else Sherlock was hiding in his wardrobe besides his bespoke suits. Sherlock hugged his Mum and Dad once more, sharing quiet words of reassurance and comfort. "I'll call you when I find her," he said quietly.

Sherlock's dad nodded and held out a rucksack, "Your Mum packed some things. I think there is a flask of tea, some biscuits and Sherrin's favourite shawl. I don't know if she had the presence of mind to dress for the chill evening air."

Sherlock swung the rucksack over his shoulder and nodded goodbye. John followed behind, but he waited until they got to the forest's edge before saying anything. "Sherlock?" John called as they clambered over fallen trees and along the overgrown footpath. "Why didn't you call your parents from London and have them check for your sister if you suspected this was where she has gone?"

Sherlock stopped and slowly turned in a circle, scanning the ground at his feet. "I am not sure that my parents even know this is where we once played. Besides, John," Sherlock looked sadly over at his partner, "if Sherrin has harmed herself, I don't want Mum or Dad to find her. I would hate for them to have to live with that memory for the rest of their life."

John nodded his understanding, "That's kind of you; quite un-sociopath like."

Sherlock shrugged, one corner of his mouth quirking upward in the mere suggestion of a grin. "Just don't go spreading that around. I have a reputation to maintain."

"Your secrets are always safe with me," John returned the half grin.

Sherlock rolled the cuffs of his shirt up until they were out of his way, then squatted on one knee and swung the torch beam over the ankle deep foliage. He plucked a broken leaf and held it up for John to see. "She can't be too far ahead of us, it hasn't completely withered. She probably came through here two, maybe three hours ago." He glanced skyward, noting the encroaching darkness. "It's only about fifteen minutes further on. When we get there I will leave you with her and go back to meet the medical team Mycroft has on standby. He also has taken the liberty to name you as her GP and has arranged for you to have privileges at the nearest hospital."

"Geez, Sherlock," John balled his hands into fists in worry. "Is this really necessary?"

"I certainly hope not, but Mycroft likes to cover all the possibilities. Come on."

They arrived in ten minutes, instead of the fifteen that it had taken an eight-year-old Sherlock and his considerably shorter legs to make the journey, and what John saw through the trees was not what he expected. He had thought he might see a cave or an old stone cottage with a thatched roof badly in need of repair. What he did see boggled his mind a little bit. The Holmes children did nothing by halves, after all. At the edge of the meadow, in the low-hanging boughs of a great tree sat a randomly put together tree house, full of odd angles and fading paintwork. "Sherlock, that's a … "

"Treehouse. We built it ourselves from wood we scavenged from all over the Estate," Sherlock explained, his pace picking up into a sprint as he neared the ramshackle building.

The door had long since fallen off its rusted hinges and Sherlock ducked through to shine the light of the torch around the small room. There in the corner, under a tattered Jolly Roger flag, lay his baby sister.

John, in full medical mode, pushed past Sherlock to kneel at her side. His eyes made a quick visual assessment while his hands felt at her neck for a pulse. "She's alive, Sherlock," John said, giving her shoulder a gentle shake. "Sherrin, can you wake up for me? Sherrin?"

"John?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow in question as he picked up a small white tablet off the floor near where she lay.

John frowned and held out his hand. "Looks like maybe a Lorazepam. It's an anti-anxiety drug," he murmured as he inspected the pill, before handing it back to Sherlock.

"Yes, I know what Lorazepam is, John. But how can you so readily recognise it? While I have no doubt that as a doctor you have a vast knowledge of manufactured drugs; I doubt you would be able to recognise them all by sight."

John slid from a crouch to sit beside Sherrin, keeping a hand on her wrist. "PTSD, remember? I am no stranger to anti-anxiety drugs, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned and gently swept a dark curl from his sister's face, "Do you think she has overdosed?"

John looked at his watch and silently counted the beats, "I don't think so. Her heart rate and respiratory effort don't seem to be depressed like someone heavily sedated. I suspect she's just sleeping very soundly. Sherrin, wake up love. You try, Sherlock."

Sherlock lowered himself until he was sitting behind her head, legs folded beneath him. "Sherrin? Sherrin?" When he got no response he looked up at John, alarmed.

John shook his head, "No, you berk, talk to her. She probably knows your voice better than anyone else's and will respond more readily."

"Sentiment?" Sherlock's brows gathered in uncertainty.

"Yes, sentiment. Now talk to her."

Sherlock leant forward and kissed her head, "Beth? Wake up, Beth. I'm so very sorry about Daniel, but I need you to wake up."

John mouthed, "Beth?"

"Sherrin Ford Elizabeth Holmes, now Holmes-Whitmore. My parents liked long names."

John couldn't help but chuckle. William Sherlock Scott and Sherrin Ford Elizabeth, he didn't even want to know what Mycroft's full name was.

"I am the only one that calls her Beth, though. Wake up, Beth."

A groan and a fluttering of eyelashes preceded the barely audible word, "Lock?"


	10. Chapter 10

"Lock?" The word was slurred and hesitant.

Sherlock let out a breath he was not aware he had been holding. "Beth!"

* * *

John pulled the cuff from around her arm and placed it and the stethoscope in the bag at his side. "Your blood pressure is a little low. Lower than I would have expected, even taking into consideration the anxiolytic you took." He folded his arms over his chest and scowled at her. "Would you like to tell me just how many Lorazepam you took, Sherrin? I know it was more than one."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her when she glanced over her shoulder at him, "I've told you, John is a very good doctor. While his deductive powers are mundane at best, he does seem to have an uncanny sixth-sense when it comes to diagnosing his patients. And, he is very persistent, like a dog with a bone. Bearing that in mind, Beth, I would advise you to be honest with him or he will hound you until he gets the truth out of you."

John shot Sherlock an indignant look, but Sherlock only smiled in return and pulled his sister tighter against him where she sat in the V of his legs. She relaxed against Sherlock's warm chest and let his scent surround her. She could smell his aftershave and the detergent his shirt had been washed in. There also were more subtle tones that she could only identify as 'my brother'. It was a combination of leather and earth tones, the smell you get on a hot day right before a thunderstorm. There was even a hint of John's own aftershave. She thought they must have had a snog at some time, probably this morning as the scent was faint. She breathed it all in, letting the familiar notes soothe her jangled nerves. In response, he began to slowly rock back and forth. It was a behaviour that they both had indulged in when the world became intolerable. Today, he was soothing her. "I thought about it," she said, staring at the wooden planks beneath her feet.

"You thought about what?" John frowned at the non-sequitur.

"Overdosing. Taking too much. I've thought of doing it before," She admitted and felt Sherlock stiffen in response. "I wanted to."

"Geez, Sherrin," John swore. "I thought that out of the two of you, you were the one with more sense!"

"John," Sherlock's voice rumbled, not necessarily a command, but more a plea.

John blew out a breath and sat back against the wall opposite. "I'm sorry, Sherrin. I… we… were worried about you."

"I know," she sniffed. "They all were too, my friends in Q-Branch. They hugged me and said they were sorry. They really were lovely, every last one of them. So kind and supportive. But it was too much. I was the centre of attention and there were too many people. They were touching me and talking to me and the words all ran together and then the room was suddenly too small and I couldn't breathe and it made my chest hurt and I had to go… I had to get away. I came here, but… it wasn't enough." She bit her lip between her teeth before taking a deep breath and continuing, "I've not done the whole relationship thing before. I've never really loved anyone until Daniel, and… losing him hurts… so… much!"

John held out his handkerchief to her, still keeping his distance. She took it and wiped her tear-streaked face, her hands shook as she did and her breaths were ragged. Sherlock made no effort to calm her with words. He rocked her gently as she tried to gain her composure. John sat quietly and averted his eyes, giving her a semblance of privacy. He was a man familiar in dealing with those in the midst of grief and loss.

"They meant well, but all I wanted was to be alone. It was my grief and I didn't want to share it with anyone," she whispered, repeatedly folding and unfolding the cloth in her hands, taking comfort in the task.

"It's a normal response, love," John said, sliding forward and brushing a damp tendril of hair off her cheek. She favoured her twin, all dark curls and striking features, not a female version of Sherlock but definitely sharing common genes. "That was a moment of intense personal anguish and not many people are comfortable letting just anyone witness that vulnerability and pain. I can't make the pain go away, but I can suggest you let your family help you through this. Your Mum and Dad are worried and want to help you. You won't have to put up a strong face or even speak if you don't want to, but please let them be with you." John pulled his vibrating phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen briefly before turning it for her to read.

For God's sake, John, have you found her yet? – MH

"Mycroft is worried about you, too, Beth. Can I call you Beth?" He continued on at her nod, "He's texted me four times in the past fifteen minutes." John's fingers typed a brief reply and sent it on its way.

She's safe. –JW

John moved to a crouch and held out his hand to her. "Your Mum packed some biscuits and tea. Let's see if they will perk you up enough to walk back to the house or if we need to call Mycroft for a ride, yeah?"

Sherrin nodded groggily and took his hand while Sherlock reached for the shawl and draped it over her shoulders.

After she consumed a cup of tea and half a biscuit, (John had tried to get her to eat more, but she politely refused) he and Sherlock each took one of her hands in theirs and led her out of the forest and into the arms of her parents. John stood back respectfully as even Sherlock joined the embrace, Sherrin firmly ensconced at its centre.

"John?"

He looked up from where he had been studying the cobblestones of the garden path to find all four of the Holmes family members looking at him expectantly. He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet, unsure what was expected of him. He could believe Sherlock wanted to include him in such an intimate moment but did Sherrin?

"Idiot," Sherlock and Sherrin drawled simultaneously and pulled John into a mishmash of tangled limbs for the second time that day.

"Thank you, John. You have been ever so kind to me," Sherrin whispered.


	11. Chapter 11

"Billy."

"Hey, Shezza," Billy stepped aside and let him enter, a half smirk on his face.

"It's for a case," Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth.

Billy nodded, still smiling. "It's alright, you know I don' judge. There's an empty space at the end of the second-floor hall. Watch out for the bloke wi' the black eye, though, he's in a right strop, he is."

Sherlock trod warily through the semi-darkness of the derelict house. The sticky sweet smell of smoke and the spicy tang of unwashed bodies hung heavy in the air. The room was crowded, but as Billy had promised there was an empty pallet in the far corner. Sherlock paid little attention to the glassy-eyed stares of the room's occupants as he settled onto it. They were of little concern anyway, he wasn't here to find a suspect. All the participants in this particular case were long since gone, considering the last crime had been committed over one hundred and twenty-five years ago.

It wasn't often he looked to the past for a case to solve. He saved that for times when there was nothing on and John was out of town. Like today. It was unfortunate timing that had both Lestrade away on holiday and John trekking out to Stoke on Trent to deal with Harry's latest relapse. The matter, of course, was complicated by the shortage of interesting inquiries to his inbox.

It was a great challenge to solve a case when he was forced to rely only on the insight of others. The Whitechapel Murders were something he had previously avoided due to the massive sensationalization of the events. He had done some extensive reading overnight and was ready to begin reviewing the data. The list of suspects was more abundant than his usual cases. Thanks to the solitude provided here he hoped to have a reasonable hypothesis by the end of the day, tomorrow at the latest.

"So, is John going to be away for long?"

He wasn't sure how long he had been submerged in his mind palace, but he suspected it had been several hours judging by the stiffness in his joints. As he slowly re-emerged into consciousness, he was aware of the change in his surroundings. The once crowded room was deserted save for two individuals snuggled up together nearest the door and a figure settled on the pallet next to his. Her face was half hidden in the shadows and a soft blue shawl was draped over her head, but he knew her. The four laptops surrounding where she sat only confirmed the fact that it was Sherrin. "Three days. Are you wearing a hijab?"

"Oh," she inhaled, then giggled girlishly as her hands felt the neatly draped fabric. "Yes, I guess I am. I didn't even realise I had done it. It's bloody cold in here and I pulled my shawl over my head to keep warm. I must have unconsciously tucked it into a hijab out of habit. I've spent a considerable amount of time in Turkey and Pakistan in the past. One has to dress accordingly when trying to remain inconspicuous."

"Yes, I know. I became very adept at arranging a shemagh several years ago in Pakistan." Sherlock stood and stretched before stepping nimbly between the laptops and taking a seat shoulder to shoulder with her. No sense wasting body heat when he had someone with whom he had no aversion to sharing the same space. She leant into him when he wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

"Oh? Tell me about it." she hummed, smiling when he placed a kiss on the top of her head.

"It was in Pakistan," he hummed back at her. "I was helping a… friend."

Sherrin turned her head to look up at him, "A, not John, friend?"

"Yes." Sherlock nodded, remembering the events clearly. "Although, calling her my friend may not be entirely accurate. She was more a minor adversary."

"A woman?" Sherrin smiled. Even if Mycroft had not told her an abbreviated version of Sherlock's encounter with Ms Adler in London, she had already heard the story of the woman's escape from death, from a Pashtun over tea only a few weeks after the event had played out. "The woman John talked about on his blog? You helped her in Pakistan? I think I might just remember hearing a story of an execution gone wrong. I seem to have forgotten the details, though."

Sherlock sniffed, bloody know it all. "You and I both know you have an eidetic memory. Don't pretend otherwise. Her name was Irene."

Sherrin raised her eyebrows suggestively, "Mycroft said she was a dominatrix."

"Oh, please, Mycroft says a lot of things. You know I am not interested in women in that way," Sherlock groaned. "Why are you here?"

She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, her earlier mirth replaced by a melancholic mood. It was several minutes before she answered. "I had to get away. I was tired of everyone trying to coddle me and wrap me in cotton wool. Mummy keeps asking me if I am all right and tries to make me eat. In addition, Mycroft keeps insisting that I should not have gotten involved in matters of the heart, 'caring is a disadvantage', he says. Daddy finally called Quentin and demanded he give me something challenging to work on. Then he faked an episode of chest pain so I could slip out unobserved."

"Beth, you could have called me," he said quietly.

"And what would you have done?" she eyed him sceptically.

"I would have dragged you away to Baker Street, bolted the door and made Mrs Hudson regale you with stories of her younger days and when you got bored with it, I would have taken you with me on a case. You would be an invaluable addition to my work."

Sherrin laughed and shook her head, "Not really my area, Lock. Besides, it's too people-y out there."

Sherlock frowned, " 'People-y'? Is that a pop culture reference or something? I am not familiar with the term."

"I'm not really sure of its origins, I like it, though," she shrugged. "What I am trying to say is that I want to be left alone, Sherlock. I deal with grief in my own way. I am perfectly happy sitting here and hacking into supposed impenetrable systems."

Sherlock looked over the four screens facing them, "Anyone I know?"

"MI5, MI6, the MOD and just for laughs Mycroft's personal laptop. M wanted me to test the country's vulnerability to cyber-attacks. I think he just wanted to see if I am as good as Quentin said I was."

"And Mycroft?"

"I was bored and he was being a tosser."

Sherlock laughed, it was amusing to see sibling rivalry at its best. "I hope you renamed all his files or deleted his calendar."

"I started to but then I decided to go for something more sinister. I configured the space key actually write the word 'space' every time it is pressed. And when he corrects that, I have the computer set to load random web pages from popular baking sites. He should have cakes and tarts popping up on his screen every fifteen to twenty minutes."

Sherlock laughed and hugged her tighter. "That's my girl! Now, let's get you to somewhere warmer and you can tell me why both of us are sitting in a drug den and neither one of us is high, hmm?"

"All right, but only if you tell me who the real Jack the Ripper was."


	12. Chapter 12

Authors note: Ok, blame the plot bunnies on this one. The subject matter is a little weird, but nothing too disturbing, although, if infidelity or the suggestion of possible infidelity is offensive to you, you might want to skip this one. This chapter is a little longer than the others, I let the plot bunnies carry me away.

* * *

John noticed the change in the air the instant he shut the door. The usual acrid odour of chemicals emanating from one or another of Sherlock's experiments was suspiciously absent and had been replaced by the aroma of spices and something… edible. If his key had not fit the lock perfectly, he would have thought he had entered the wrong building. He swore he could smell fragrant notes of turmeric, cardamom, cumin and garlic wafting down the stairs from the supposed empty flat above.

It couldn't be Mrs Hudson. She wasn't partial to curried dishes, claiming the smell would linger in the house for days. Besides, she was staying with her sister this week. Billy, the skull, lacked opposable thumbs, or hands for that matter, so it surely couldn't be him even if the skull was so inclined to take up the spoon and saucepan in a culinary endeavour. Someone was definitely cooking. And random strangers don't just break into your flat to cook up a pot of Tikka Masala or Chicken Vindaloo. That only left his mad nutter of a flatmate (boyfriend? lover? partner?). John supposed Sherlock might have finished the case in Liverpool ahead of schedule and just forgotten to call John to let him know he was coming home early. However, John found that hard to believe as he had yet to witness Sherlock cook something more complicated than scrambled eggs and a tin of beans over toast. Moreover, Sherlock never forgot anything, but who else could it be?

"Sherlock, are you in?" He called as he jogged up the seventeen steps. "I thought you weren't going to be back until Sunday. Sherlock, are you actually cooking?"

It was the dress that surprised him the most, not the identity of the intruder. Three weeks ago, Sherlock was invited to Paris to investigate a case of high-fashion industry sabotage and John saw that very same dress draped over an almost too thin, boyish-looking model in stiletto heels as she pranced down the runway. Then it had looked ridiculous, now that same dress looked… delightfully sinful!

To say the dress's current occupant filled out the flowing aubergine material was an understatement and John felt his jeans tighten, as his eye couldn't help but roam over the goddess-like vision before him. Sherrin's raven curls were perfectly coiffed into an elegant updo and for all that she resembled her twin with pale skin and amazing cheekbones, she was soft and amply rounded where her brother was long lines and harsh angles. The hem of the dress gently swirled about her bare ankles and feet as her hips gently undulated to the tune she hummed.

John ran a hand down his face and willed away his burgeoning erection. He wasn't sure whether to be amused or embarrassed at his reaction. One would have to be dead not to notice that Sherrin was an attractive woman but, oh god, the way she was moving. However, it was a bit not good lusting after your partner's sister. He squeezed his hands into fists and breathed deeply. Once he felt he had his libido under control, he knocked firmly on the doorframe to announce his arrival.

As Sherrin turned, she pulled the earbuds from her ears and a smile lit her face. "Oh John, I am so glad you are here. I can't get the lid off this bloody jar of passata. Can you do me the favour, love?" She held out the offending ingredient.

John stepped forward and took the jar, sneaking a peek at the contents of the pot simmering on the hob as he twisted the lid. His empty stomach gave an involuntary grumble at the sight and smell of what he knew to be curried chickpeas and… "Are those sweet potatoes?"

Sherrin nodded, "Yes. Do you like them?"

"I do," John chuckled. "Curried Chickpeas with Sweet Potatoes is one of my favourite dishes. How did you know?"

Sherrin gently stirred in the tomatoes, then held out the spoon for John to taste. "Sherlock mentioned that you eat vegetarian."

"Mostly, although I do occasionally eat fish." John groaned as the flavours danced across his tongue. "Oh my God, that's fabulous. You are a bloody amazing cook, Sherrin. I don't think I have ever tasted anything so good." John thought it might be rude to jerk the spoon from her grasp and eat straight from the pot, but he was sorely tempted.

Sherrin's face glowed with a smug smile that reminded him of Sherlock's every time John murmured similar praise over a deduction. "Thank you. Mummy taught all three of us how to cook as soon as we were old enough to reach the countertop by standing on a chair. I am surprised Sherlock hasn't made this for you before. It's one of our favourite dishes."

"Sherlock knows how to cook? You mean real recipes not just opening a tin and dumping it in a pot?" John asked in disbelief.

Sherrin's brow creased in confusion. "Of course, he does. Cooking is nothing but organic chemistry. Do you mean to tell me he hasn't cooked for you?" She moved the pot from the heat and reached to retrieve two bowls from the cabinet above. She filled them with rice and a healthy portion of the curry.

John grabbed the bottle of Pinot Noir sitting on the table and poured them each a glass before settling across the table from her. "Not like this. Sometimes he makes breakfast or heats up leftovers, but he's never cooked anything from a recipe and certainly nothing this delicious. If I had known Sherlock was half as good at cooking as you are, he would have been responsible for making dinner every night."

Sherrin giggled at the thought of her brother turning down a double or triple homicide because it was his night to cook. "I don't think he is quite that domestically inclined, John. You might get him to cook once or twice a week, but only if you promise to bring home body parts from St Bart's."

"I guess you are right," John chuckled. "Sherlock isn't exactly the stereotypical housewife in this relationship. In fact, I never thought he would want to enter into a relationship with someone like me. Now, look at us. First, come regular mealtimes and next thing you know we've got 1.8 children and a cottage in Sussex Downs." John laughed and scooped up another spoonful of the rice drenched in sauce. When he looked up, he was alarmed to find Sherrin had dropped her gaze and was toying with the stem of her wine glass. He thought at first, he must have upset the woman. Oh god, how callous of him to talk about his happiness in the face of her grief. But, the corners of her mouth twitched upwards in what he thought might be amusement. Confused, he stammered, "Sherrin, what is going on?"

She slowly lifted her eyes to meet his and John noticed a slight blush blooming across those elegant cheekbones. "John, I have a proposal to make."

"Alright," John put his spoon down and folded his hands in front of him.

"I haven't discussed this with Sherlock yet. I thought I should approach you first. I wanted to tell you that I am very thankful that my brother met you. You are possibly the best thing, yes, the best thing that has ever happened to him. We Holmes' are not the easiest to love, I know. It is a rare individual that is patient enough to see the heart beneath the intellect. I think you have seen Sherlock's true heart and I think he has seen yours. He loves you with every strand of his DNA. And would… no, he has already given his life for you. I believe he would offer up his very soul for sacrifice if needed. It delights me to no end that he has you to make him happy. He deserves that. What I want to offer you is an opportunity to expand that happiness and love." Sherrin paused as if gathering the courage to continue.

"Yes?" John encouraged, curiosity eating at him.

In the truest un-Holmesian manner ever, Sherrin shyly brushed a curl behind her ear and her cheeks flushed full crimson. "John, what I want to offer you is myself… I mean you can have me… I mean my body… Oh, fuck!" John had never seen anyone look so flustered but determined before. She took a deep breath and straightened in her chair. (That was a feat, in itself, as her posture was already military perfect) "What I am trying to say is that if you and Sherlock should ever wish to procreate, I would be glad to be the gestational surrogate. With your sperm and my egg, it would be like Sherlock's own child, a genetic Holmes. I think he would be most pleased with the prospect. Whereas the idea of becoming a parent has some appeal to me, the truth of the matter is that I hardly am motherhood material. I tend to shy away from other humans and would be perfectly happy living as a recluse. I have an extensive criminal record and am wanted in five countries. It was seven, but Mycroft negotiated to have me pardoned by the British and American Governments for my work on the Lamey-Stark debacle. I also have a history of substance abuse," Sherrin paused, a slight frown marring her features, "but so does Sherlock, so just disregard that fact. However, I promise to abstain from all illicit substances and to relinquish all my rights upon delivery of the child. If you choose to reveal to the child or children as to whom their maternal genetic donor is, then that is up to you. All I beg of you is that I would be given updates on the child's welfare and be allowed to occasionally attend family gatherings in their presence. What do you think?"

It took John a minute to process what had just happened. Sherlock's sister just offered to have a baby for them. A baby. He and Sherlock had only been together romantically a few months, but they both knew this was a long-term relationship, not a passing fling. Having a family was something he had never considered, but suddenly it sounded quite appealing. He and Sherlock, together, raising a son or daughter, or both, that certainly was enticing.

John rose to his feet and held out his hand, "Sherrin, may I hug you?"

Sherrin grinned up at him and nodded. She took John's hand and let him pull her up and into an embrace.

Much to John's surprise, she hugged him back. "Thank you, Sherrin. Thank you," he whispered into her hair. "That is the most selfless thing anyone has ever done for me, aside from jumping off a building."

Sherrin pulled back and looked at John with a wry grin. "Sorry, John, I have a fear of heights and falling. I'll leave the flying to Sherlock."

John kissed her on the forehead and stepped back. "Um, no. We're never doing that again. I don't think I can survive another suicide note."

"What?" Sherrin looked confused and John suspected that Sherlock never told her of his pre-jump phone call to him.

"Maybe some other time. I'd rather not discuss it right now." John held out her chair for her to sit then took his own. "I'm not saying we are ready to have children, but if we were to decide to… um… go with your offer, do you have the details worked out? You know, the timing as far as your career, the doctor you would want to do the insemination, prenatal care, and delivery? Would you want to breastfeed for a little while or provide pumped breastmilk? I know Sherlock will want to know your plans when I talk to him about it. Maybe it would be better if you were present for that portion of the conversation," John said thoughtfully.

"John, because of my criminal past, I would prefer not to involve any more people than necessary. Nor do I wish to find my picture on some tabloid proclaiming 'retired mastermind criminal hacker pregnant with Consulting Detective's blogger's baby. I don't see why we would need another doctor, anyway. I assumed you would want to oversee the pregnancy and deliver the child yourself. Surely you have delivered a baby before."

John stirred at his curry, contemplating the matter. "I delivered several babies during my Army career. Sometimes we were the only doctor the indigenous population ever saw. I suppose I could take charge of your care and even deliver the baby. I would have to do some research as far as insemination techniques or I guess we could just try the old turkey baster technique. I have heard that the method is fairly successful among the lesbian population."

"Oh, John. I'm sorry. I didn't realise you might be opposed to…" Sherrin covered her mouth with her hand in embarrassment. "Sherlock talked about your past girlfriends and I mistakenly assumed you were bisexual."

"I am," John laughed nervously. "But let me make sure I am getting this right. Beth, are you suggesting we actually shag?"

"Yes, of course. That is if you aren't opposed. I just assumed it would be the most efficient and reliable method of getting me pregnant. I think Sherlock would agree that it is the logical choice." Sherrin answered, completely serious.

John took her hand in his and looked her in the eye, "Beth, I want to make sure you understand what you are offering. Do you realize that not every time you have unprotected sex, does it result in pregnancy?"

She nodded, oblivious to his discomfort. "Yes, I assumed so."

John felt his cheeks redden. He felt like a schoolboy suffering through 'The Sex Talk' with his Mum and Dad. "Sherrin, in order to ensure the highest odds of fertilisation of your egg to occur, we would have to have sex multiple times during your ovulatory phase? Are you willing to commit to that? I don't know if you currently have a partner, but if you do, how are they going to react? As for that matter, I'm not sure how Sherlock is going to react to me shagging his sister. Or of his sister shagging me." John laughed at the absurdity of the situation she was proposing.

Sherrin raised her eyebrows and gave him a roguish smile, "Ask him."

* * *

John did.

"Why would I mind? You would be doing it to conceive our child. I see no reason to get jealous. Don't be an idiot, John."


	13. Chapter 13

Sherrin: "Q-Branch, this is Holmes. You are on a secured line. How may I assist you?"

Bond: "Where's Q?" (she heard the creak of a hinge in need of oil)

Sherrin: "At half three in the morning and considering he has the flu, I would assume he is home in bed. How may I help you, 007?"

Bond: "Where is R?"

Sherrin: "She's in Edinburgh. Her Gran is in hospital."

Bond: "Oh." (the sound of feet upon metal steps)

Sherrin: "Did you need something, 007?"

Bond: "Not really." (the sound of gravel crunching underfoot)

Sherrin: "Oh?"

Bond: "Just bored." (the dull thud of a pack being set upon the ground)

Sherrin: "Sorry. Anything I can do?"

Bond: "Tell me what you are wearing?"

Sherrin: "Why?" (a giggle)

Bond: "I told you. I'm bored." (the sound of the pack being unzipped)

Sherrin: "Sorry to disappoint you, but I am in jeans and a jumper. Nothing the least bit provocative."

Bond: "Yes, it is. I've seen you in jeans and a jumper. Is it the striped one?" (the faint squeak of a tripod being unfolded)

Sherrin: "Yes."

Bond: "Oh, good." (the sound of a round being chambered)

Sherin: (more giggles) "What's that supposed to mean?"

Bond: "Nothing." (the rustle of cloth on cloth)

Sherrin: "Bond, if you are engaging in… self-gratification… while on the job… while thinking of me... And… oh, my god… while talking to me…."

Bond: (chuckling softly) "Relax. I have my hand firmly on my weapon."

Sherrin: "That's exactly what I am afraid of."

Bond: (a hearty laugh that gets cut off sharply) "Excuse me for just a moment."

Sherrin: (waiting silently)

Bond: (silence)

Bond: (whispering quietly to himself) "Come on, just a little more."

Sherrin: (listening intently)

Bond: "Perfect!" (the sound of a breath being exhaled and then two neat pops)

Bond: "Mark eliminated. Sorry, Love, got to go. Tell Q I hope he feels better soon. Oh, and I know he mostly eats vegetarian but doesn't he occasionally eat chicken?"

Sherrin: "Yes, occasionally."

Bond: "Good. Bond out."

(Later that Morning)

"How was the night shift, Sherrin?" Q asked in a raspy voice. "I hope it was uneventful."

"It was. 006 and 004 reported that they had gotten settled in near Kabul. 003, M, and half of the accounting department called out with the flu, too. A key Al-Qaeda leader was assassinated. And, I think Bond is going to show up at your door in three hours with a pot of homemade chicken noodle soup."

Q sniffed, "Oh, really? What makes you think that?"

"Just a hunch, he seemed a little bit bored." Sherrin smiled to herself.


	14. Chapter 14

There are a couple of things that prompted this fic, but mostly I wanted some family feels.

* * *

Sherrin arrived at Mycroft's office to find Anthea's desk unmanned. That was unusual, she didn't think she had ever not seen Anthea at her appointed post. She supposed the woman may have just popped out to use the loo, though that was unlikely considering Mycroft seemed to be escorting a foreign dignitary to the door. Sherrin stepped aside and tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, but was painfully aware that the stranger and his entourage had stopped directly in front of her.

"Well, well, Mr Holmes. You've been holding out on me. The next time we meet, you must have your lovely little visitor join us. I do admire a pretty face." The man's eyes roamed over Sherrin's body before flicking up to meet her eyes ever so briefly.

Sherrin bristled under the foreigner's gaze. She knew what a man was thinking when he looked at a woman in that way. She'd had men look at her like that before and she self-consciously tugged her coat a little tighter around her lithe frame, wishing she had worn trousers instead of a dress. She doubted anyone but herself noticed the thinly veiled rage that momentarily flashed across Mycroft's face before he schooled his expression into something more neutral. His eyes, however, remained cold and shark-like. Sherrin shuddered, remembering the one time Mycroft had looked at her with those eyes. She hadn't seen him again for fifteen years after that.

Mycroft acknowledged his sister's presence with a nod and held out a hand for her, ushering her into his inner office. He shut the door firmly behind and blocked out the sound of any reply he made to the obnoxious man.

Two minutes and thirty seconds later, Mycroft and his 'not Anthea' assistant joined her. "Shall I write up my notes and put them on your desk in the morning, sir?" The young clerk gathered up his notebook and waited patiently for a reply.

"Yes, Hiram. And you can ring Anthea. I think it is safe for her to return."

"Very good, sir. I'll let her know and get to work on the proposal myself. Good afternoon, Miss Holmes."

"Good afternoon, Mr Chandran." Sherrin waited until the man had closed the door before gasping. "That man, earlier, was that…?"

"Yes, unfortunately." Mycroft kissed her cheek and went straight to the polished metal table to the side. He poured two tumblers of what she knew was the finest whisky money could buy and tossed the first back before handing the other to her.

"Oh." She swirled the contents, admiring the rich amber colour. "And you were more worried about the Korean elections?"

"Yes, well, I had no idea the clot would actually win." Mycroft sighed. He peeled off his suit jacket and sat heavily in his desk chair.

Sherrin placed her whisky on the table top and circled around the desk, stopping to stand just behind Mycroft's chair. "Loosen your tie and unbutton your top shirt button."

"Sherry, you don't have to." Mycroft protested, even as his hands moved to comply with her demands.

"Mike, you have a headache. It's most likely muscle tension. If you had been clenching your jaw any harder you would have broken a molar. Let me help." Sherrin began to massage his shoulders and upper back. Her fingers dug deep, kneading the tight knots of flesh beneath.

"Four years, Sherry." Mycroft let out a sigh and let his eyes fall shut. "Maybe eight."

She smiled, raising up on her tiptoes to apply more pressure to a particularly tight spot just where his neck met his shoulder. "And if the situation spirals out of control, you will do what you usually do in these situations."

He leant his head back so he could look her in the face and raised an eyebrow. "Yes? And what would that be?"

Giggling, she leant forward and placed a kiss on his forehead. "Don't be coy, Mycroft. I do work for MI6, you know."

"Yes, well, enough of that." He stood and put his clothes back in order. He took her by the arms and gazed at her intently. "Why are you here, Sherry?"

She shrugged and refused to meet his eyes. "I was bored."

"Sherrin?" He ducked his head until he caught her eye and then raised that same disbelieving eyebrow at her again.

"Alright," her lashes fluttered furiously. "I was sad. I miss Daniel. I've been thinking of how little time I had to spend with him, and then I thought about how I so seldom see you, even now. Then I realised how lucky I am to have a big brother like you. I was putting on my coat and calling for a taxi before I really thought about it. I missed fifteen years of being with my family and I can't get that back. It got me to thinking that we didn't part on good terms back then, obviously. I want to make it right, Mycroft. I want to tell you that I missed you and that… that I love you."

"I love you, little sister." Mycroft wrapped her in his arms and hugged her as if he had never hugged her before. "I love you."


	15. Chapter 15

Author's notes: This chapter takes us back a bit, all the way back to TRF, or rather six months after The Fall. It corresponds with the events in my other story, FIX ME. Please excuse any mistakes and the lengthy time between updates. My computer died and I am trying to write, edit and post via tablet. Ugh, it's not been easy! I'm going to invest in a Bluetooth keyboard to make do until summer, when buying a computer might be possible. Anyway, thanks for listening to me whine.

* * *

Tears are a saline fluid secreted by the lacrimal glands in the eye that keep the organ lubricated. They are also formed when an emotional response triggers an area of the brain, called the hypothalamus, to produce and release acetylcholine, which in turn stimulates the lacrimal glands. This fluid flows across the eye and beneath the lids, then drains through the lacrimal punctum into the posterior nasal cavity. When there is an excess of fluid, the drainage system is overwhelmed and the flow is forced over the eyelids and down the cheeks. This is how we cry.

A catalyst is a person or thing that causes an event to happen. The teacup's breakage was the catalyst for the tears, but was not actually the reason for the tears.

Voilet Holmes was certainly aware of the dynamics of tear production, however, she was just as certainly unable to suppress the reaction. Instead, the shards of china lay ignored on the floor of the kitchen as she hid her face in the crook of Carlton's neck and sobbed.

"I know, love. I know," he hummed and held her tight.

"That was Sherrin's favorite cup," her voice was barely a whisper and her shoulders shuddered. "We lost her so long ago, now we may lose Sherlock, too. I want my babies back!"

Tears rolled down his own face as he tried to console the inconsolable. Sherlock had been 'gone' six months, now, and even though it had been hard seeing their youngest son's name sullied in the press, they remained hopeful that Mr Moriarty's web would soon be demolished and their son could come home. Despite that hope, some days the burden of carrying on seemed nearly impossible.

Only yesterday, Voilet had been awakened from a deep sleep by a sharp pain in her leg and a sense of impending doom. The pain had gone away, but the unsettling feeling lingered. Surely fate wouldn't be so cruel as to take two of her children. Her heart still ached for the loss of her only daughter and she longed to see Sherlock, to know that he was safe.

Two weeks later that urgent need was still there and stubbornly refused to abate. Truthfully, it had been there since the day Sherlock had first flung himself from the roof of St. Bartholomew's and it probably wasn't going to go away until he stepped off a plane and told them his mission was complete.

This day, neither one of them could seem to keep their mind off their woes. That was why Carlton was not too surprised to find Violet seated on the low wall that marked the end of the driveway being attended by a stranger. Violet had declined his offer to accompany him to the shops to get tea and milk, expressing her desire to tend the flower beds down by the main road while he was out. Slamming the car into park and flinging the door open, he dashed to his wife's side. "What's the matter, love? Are you alright?"

"She's fine." The woman replied softly, tucking a strand of blond hair behind her ear. "She's just had a fright. Do you have a bottle of water in the car? She hyperventilated and got dizzy. I think she's feeling a bit better but a drink of water might help her get her breath back."

Carlton returned from the car and squated in front of the two women seated on the wall. He placed the opened bottle in his wife's hand and watched her take a tentative sip. When he was sure she was indeed recovering, he squeezed her hand and turned to face the other woman. "You shouldn't have scared your Mum so, Sherrin."

"You recognized me!" She smiled and pulled her mother closer with the arm she had draped across her shoulders.

"I know my daughter's face no matter how much makeup or hair dye she uses to try to disguise herself." Despite the strength in his words, his hand shook as he reached out to take his daughter's hand and gave it a squeeze.

"You always were the observant one, Dad," she laughed and returned the grip. "Mummy, are you feeling well enough to walk to the car? Daddy can drive us to the house and I will make us some tea."

Sherrin helped her mother to her feet and suddenly found herself sandwiched between her parents. She suspected this was what it might feel like to be hugged by an octopus. Tears sprang to her own eyes, it had been too long since she felt their embrace. As much as she wanted to relish the moment, common sense made her pull away and wipe her eyes. "Can we go up to the house? I'd rather not let anyone know I'm alive, just now."

Sherrin found the house hadn't changed significantly since she had left. The curtains and the furniture may have been different, but the atmosphere was still just as warm and inviting as she remembered. It's inhabitants hadn't always seen eye to eye, but there had never been any lack of love between them.

Violet suggested Sherrin go freshen up. "I've not gotten to cook for you in too many years, please let me do it. And will you wash off some of that stage makeup, dear? I want to see my daughter's beautiful face."

Sherrin leant against the closed bathroom door and listened to the quiet hum of her parent's voices in the kitchen. She couldn't make out what they were saying but just the familiarity of it made her weak in the knees and she slid down to the floor. Home. She was finally home.

The aroma of a traditional fry-up greeted her as she stepped out of the shower. Breakfast was her favorite meal of the day, any time of the day. She ran a towel through her short, electric-blue locks and considered leaving the hateful wig off. No, her parents had had enough shocks for the day. No need for them to know about her hair or the tattoo or the piercings. Instead, she reached in her rucksack and pulled out the curly brunette one, the one that most closely matched her natural color. She did, however, forgo applying anything but moisturizer to her face.

Between bites of the best meal she had eaten in ten years, she told them of her life since she had been taken from them. She glazed over the less savory details of her existence, telling them she she repaired computers and wrote computer apps to support herself. It really wasn't that far from the truth, it just sounded so much better than 'criminal hacker for hire'.

"You know your brother, Sherlock, had a bit of trouble last year," Violet said, getting up to refill Sherrin's plate. Her daughter's cheeks looked a bit thin and her clothing seemed to hang off of her. Even if they only shared this one meal, Violet intended to make sure her daughter walked away well fed.

"I know. I followed the story in the papers," Sherrin cradled her mug of tea in her hands, letting it warm her fingers, which seemed perpetually cold. "Actually, that's why I'm here. I didn't know if you knew he was alive or not. I certainly didn't, at least until two weeks ago. I was in Bosnia, waiting to meet up with a friend when I saw him. Sherlock, I mean."

Violet set Sherrin's plate down a little harder than she meant to in excitement. "Is he alright?" She gasped at the same time Carlton begged, "Tell us how he is?"

"He was limping. He'd hurt his leg, his right thigh, I think." Sherrin's brow creased ever so slightly at the look her parents shot each other. Writing it off as worry, she continued her narrative. "I helped him out a bit, you know, pointed him in the right direction and all. I don't think he recognized me, and I didn't tell him who I was. I had a friend watch for him at the airport, to make sure he got out of the country safely ( _she really meant 'alive', but the word 'safely' was much more kind)_." Mycroft wasn't the only one that could hijack cctv cameras for personal use. And it had been a stolen motorcycle, not an airplane on which he had left. "That's why I'm here, I needed to let you know that he is still safe... and I am, too. It was a cruel thing to let you think I was dead, necessary, but still cruel. And for that, I... I am so sorry." For the second time today, Sherrin found herself on her feet, engulfed in those same loving arms that had cradled her as a baby. Life was cruel, but sometimes, maybe, it gave back just a little of what it had so viciously taken away.

They talked long into the night, about anything and everything. Sherrin begged them not to tell her brothers she was alive. If they knew, they might seek her out and draw attention from those that would harm her. Not only had she committed treason against her beloved country, she had stolen and swindled her way around the globe. She even had a man's blood on her hands, a man from a very powerful crime family. No good would come from anyone else knowing she was alive.

At half past three they exchanged hugs and retired for the night, promising to resume their reunion in the morning. Sherrin closed her lap top and pulled the memory stick from the side. She placed it in the center of the bed with the selfie she had printed off for them to remember her by. Once she had changed into the faded t-shirt and tattered jeans, she replaced the tiny silver rings at her brow, lip and the curve of her ear. The hair she chose was her own, sculpted into short spikes with an abundance of product and the styling iron she had brought. Blue had always been her favourite color. She slipped on the sensible brown pumps, for now. She would retrieve her boots and leather jacket from the tree house where she had slept the night before. Her second laptop and the rest of her few possessions awaited her also.

Checking the carefully, but heavily drawn eyeliner and blue lipstick in the mirror one last time, she tiptoed out of the house and into the field beyond. At the edge of the woods she turned and stared at the house, barely visible in the darkness. Sniffing, she hiked the rucksack higher on her back and whispered, "I love you."

Damn! Stupid involuntary reflexes! Her tears were going to ruin her mascara!

* * *

AN: Surprise, one of the Holmes siblings has a tattoo. I would love to hear your guesses as to where and what it might be. Drop me a line and let me know what you think (about the tattoo or the story or, hopefully, both). Thank you so much for following along!


	16. Chapter 16

Bring Thai chicken coconut soup and your medical bag to my sister's flat. SH

Is she alright? JW

Of course not, John. That's why I asked you to bring your bag. Get us something to eat, also. SH

And bring my laptop. I can't deduce her password on any of hers. SH

How many laptops does she have? JW

Chicken soup, John! SH

John stepped up to the door and was just shifting the bags so he could knock when it opened on it's own accord. He was surprised to fine a rather disheveled looking Sherlock on the other side.

"Oh, thank God, John. I was getting peckish and I didn't want to risk waking her trying to make something to eat," Sherlock pushed his half rolled up shirt sleeve back and pulled John into the flat.

It wasn't what he had been expecting of Sherrin's flat, although exactly what he had been expecting he really couldn't say. This was not it. The interior of the flat was neat and tidy, but on almost every available flat surface there seemed to be some type of electronic device ranging from the smallest tablet to the largest, most sturdy laptop and, of course, all the paraphernalia and cords associated with such devices.

Sherlock beckoned John with a curl of his finger and a small shushing sound. "I think she has the flu. I've tried to get her to eat something, but she refuses. She is drinking, but not enough. Out of the time I have been with her she has been awake a total of only three hours, and not all at once. She gets up momentarily to pee, drink something and then falls back to sleep between fits of coughing. Fix my sister, John." Sherlock skirted the laptop sitting in the middle of Sherrin's bedroom floor. A teacup sat idly to the side.

John approached Sherrin's sleeping form, or at least he assumed it was her. There were a multitude of blankets and duvets piled atop the bed, too many to make any attempt to identify the bed's occupant easy. John tentatively rested his hand upon Sherrin's brow. "Christ, Sherlock, she's burning up. Let's get some of these off her and get the thermometer out of my bag."

"She was 38 degrees, an hour and a half ago," Sherlock looked uncertainly up at John as he pulled back and neatly folded the topmost duvet and placed it on the foot of the bed. "Should I not have covered her back up after getting her out of the tepid shower? I was afraid she would get chilled and produce more heat by shivering."

John stilled, "Sherlock, just how long has she been sick?"

"A little over thirty-six hours."

"And how long have you been taking care of her?" John picked up the thermometer that sat on the nightstand. It must be the one Sherlock had been using.

Sherlock shrugged, "Twenty-eight, I suppose. How long were you at that conference in Glasgow?"

"Three days," John narrowed his eyes, wondering why it made any difference.

"Twenty-nine and a half, just guessing." Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and stroked Sherrin's hand. "She called me asking me to bring her juice and a hair band. 'Said her curls get all knotted when she stays in bed for very long and doesn't bother to braid it."

"Sherrin, love, it's John. Slip this under your tongue and let's see how warm you are, alright?" John held the thermometer with one hand and fingered the neat plait of hair with the other. Well, he never imagined adding styling women's hair to his list of 'mundane things that Sherlock actually knows how to do'. He leaned over and placed a kiss on that angular jaw. "You said you were hungry and I suspect you haven't slept either. Go, your favorite spring rolls and Pho are getting cold. I'll see if she wants to eat any of her soup after I do a quick exam, although I think you are spot on for this being the flu. You are a good brother, Sherlock. Now, go take care of yourself."

"But, John, she didn't have anyone to take care of her for so many years. I don't want to leave her." Sherlock looked pleadingly at John, hoping he understood.

"I get it, I do, Sherlock. But, you aren't leaving her unattended. I'm here and you will be in the other room. Alright?"

Sherlock kissed Sherrin's hand and slowly made his way to the kitchen. John could hear him rummaging through bags and boxes of take-away. John just hoped that after he ate, Sherlock would take a kip on the spare bed across the hall.

Sherrin sleepily answered John's questions and coughed when he asked her to. But, his pre- and post-exam diagnosis were the same. It was Flu. Rest, fluids and antipyretics were the best interventions he could offer. Sherlock, with his meager knowledge of the practical side of medicine, had been doing just exactly what John would have prescribed himself. Sherrin was roused enough by the end of his exam to ask if Sherlock was still there. "I made him eat and now he's asleep in your guest bed. You need to do the same. There's Thai soup if you want it, if not drink a little water and go back to sleep."

In the end Sherrin and Sherlock both slept until morning, not that it was that far off anyway. John took the time to slip off his shoes and wash his face. The train ride back from Glasgow had been boring and uncomfortable. He picked up the abandoned teacup from the floor and took it to the kitchen. Returning to Sherrin's room, he bent to pick up the laptop but on a whim seated himself in front of it and began typing in the password space: williamsherlockscottholmes. The desktop loaded within seconds. He couldn't wait to get home and have a go at Sherlock's laptop. For all their genius, the Holmes twins were pretty predictable to those that knew them well.


	17. Chapter 17

AN: This chapter is a little different. For the most part, it is told from Molly's viewpoint.

* * *

Molly tied a knot and snipped the excess suture from the neatly stitched Y-incision. If Hugh Green had not died of a heroin overdose last night, he certainly would have soon died of dehydration, malnutrition or cirrhosis. She was glad to be done with this autopsy. He had an unusually high Hepatitis C viral load and Molly knew that despite the use of the normal protective equipment accidental sticks, splashes and other exposures were always possible. She half turned, sliding the instrument tray out of her way and realized she was not alone. A well dressed woman stood in the doorway, looking around uncertainly.

She didn't often get visitors to the morgue, not unless it was to identify a body and then they were always escorted by a Police Constable or Detective. Molly surmised the woman must have gotten off the lift on the wrong level and mistakenly wandered into the morgue. "Oh, hello. May I help you find something?" She stepped between the table and the door, blocking any view of the corpse.

"My apologies." The woman tugged at her earring and glanced back the way she had come in. "My brother asked me to meet him here. I suppose he must have been delayed. I didn't mean to bother you. I'll just go and wait by the lifts." Her expensive shoes clicked on the tile as she turned and hurried out into the hallway. em(Are those Prada's?)/em Oh, how Molly wished she could afford such beautiful shoes!

Molly pulled off the gown, goggles, and gloves, depositing them in the appropriate bins. As she washed her hands she realized there was something very familiar about the visitor. She reminded her of someone she knew. "Russell, can you put Mr Green in the drawer for me?" she called to her assistant and stepped out into the hall after drying her hands. The woman stood patiently by the lifts, typing on her em(Yes, those are definitely Prada's! Oh my god, she has the matching handbag!)/em "Excuse me, Miss," Molly approached cheerfully. "You said you were going to meet your brother. Does he work here?"

"No, not actually. He does some of his work here, but he is not employed by the hospital. He calls this his 'Home away from home'." She tucked a ringlet of dark hair behind her ear and it was then that Molly put it all together: a posh public school accent, designer clothing, dark curls, stunning beauty accented by sharp cheekbones and verdigris eyes, a rare enough thing in the general population, though it often runs in families.

A smile lit up Molly's face and she extended a hand, knowing exactly who this woman was. "You must be Sherlock's sister. It's nice to meet you, Miss Holmes. I'm Molly."

"Hello, Molly. Please, call me Sherrin," she said, taking Molly's hand in both of her own. "I am so pleased to finally meet you. I hear Sherlock mention your name quite frequently."

Molly's smile faltered for just a second, the uncertainty showing on her face. "Oh?"

"Yes," Sherrin said, giving Molly's hand a squeeze. "He speaks quite highly of your work. In fact, Sherlock has told me so much about you and what you did for him during that dreadful Moriarty debacle. I know he can be somewhat of an arse at times, so just in case he hasn't actually said it himself, I will. Thank you, Molly. Thank you for risking your reputation and your career to help my brother. It means a lot to me, to him and to the whole family. He could not have pulled that off without your help."

"Oh. I... well," stunned, Molly scrambled for a reply. This was not what she would have imagined Sherlock's sister to be like, even if she had known Sherlock had a sister. "It was my pleasure, Sherrin. I was glad to help. Oh, how rude of me. Would you like a cup of tea? I was just going to put the kettle on in my office." Molly nodded to indicate the door at the end of the hall.

Sherrin's shoulders relaxed in relief, "That would be lovely." Within a few minutes Sherrin sat across the desk from Molly, cradling a mug of Earl Grey.

Molly found Sherrin surprisingly easy to talk to, unlike her brother. Although, since Sherlock had spent so much time at her flat in the immediate days after his fake suicide, they had become more at ease around each other. "And believe it or not, he actually did thank me in his own sweet way," Molly said feeling her cheeks redden, thinking of the crime solving and the quick peck on the cheek he had shared with her afterwards.

"Good, very good." Sherrin grinned. "He really does praise your work and respects you as a professional. He told me just recently, 'She is quite useful when it comes to the work. She is intuitive and not an idiot'." Sherrin said, mimicking Sherlock's baritone as best she could and ending up in giggles by the end of it. "Sorry, I'm rubbish at doing voices."

Molly's reply was interrupted by a buzzing from her phone. "Excuse me, just a moment," she said, pulling her mobile out of her lab coat and reading the text: Detained. Email Wilkinson's autopsy and lab reports to me. -SH

"Oh, it looks like your brother is going to be late," Molly glanced back up to see Sherrin staring at a message on her own phone: Lestrade is being an arse. He won't let me leave until I fill out the required paperwork and explain my deductions. Tedious! We'll have to reschedule. -SH

"Damn. It's too late to cancel the reservations." Sherrin sighed.

"Reservations?" Molly frowned in confusion.

"Yes," Sherrin slid her phone back into her skirt pocket. "Afternoon Tea at the Winter Garden. Sherlock, John and I were going to meet here and go."

Molly almost groaned in envy. Afternoon Tea at the Winter Garden was something she had always wanted to try, but had never taken the time to do. "Maybe you could get Mycroft to go with you?"

"No, he's in Moscow and my cousin is working late. I was looking forward to it, too," Sherrin sighed. She could go by herself, of course. She never minded being alone but the whole point in going out for afternoon tea was to share it with someone else. Just then, Molly sipped at her tea and let her eyes stray to the filing cabinet where she apparently had some sort of biscuits or sweets stashed. "Molly, you've not eaten since you left your flat this morning. Have you?"

"What?" Molly exclaimed, eyes snapping back to meet Sherrin's. "No, not actually."

"Good." Sherrin slid forward to sit on the edge of her chair. "Come with me, Molly. Come have tea with me."

* * *

A week and a half later, Molly was surprised when Sherrin showed up unexpectedly at her door carrying a covered basket on her arm. "Sherlock said you performed an autopsy on a murdered toddler. That can't have been easy. I thought you might need someone to talk to. I nicked a bottle of my big brother's finest wine and half of a decadent chocolate cake for us to share."

The pair sat up into the wee hours of the night, sometimes talking and sometimes sitting quietly, but always in complete comfort. And when the last drop of liquid was gone from the bottom of their glasses, the last crumb of cake eaten and the last tear wiped away, Sherrin tucked a blanket around the sleeping Dr Hooper and slipped out into the night.

Molly, of course, called Sherrin the next day and thanked her for her kindness. "I wondered if you'd like to have coffee. With me, I mean," she clarified. "You don't have to but if you'd like to, I know a great little coffee house in Soho, it's called Jasper's. What do you think about Thursday next?"

"Thursday next is fabulous." Sherrin, who normally tried to avoid socializing in public places, accepted and was actually looking forward to the meeting. Making small talk with most people was painfully dull and certain social situations made her uncomfortable, but she had discovered that she was surprisingly at ease when in Molly's company. It could be Molly's own awkwardness was a comfort, someone with whom she didn't have to pretend to be what others considered normal. Molly's propensity to make morbid jokes was equaled by Sherrin's own tendency to break out in technical jargon when a conversation strayed towards computers or most electronic devices, something only Daniel and Quentin had been able to tolerate with anything akin to interest.

Sherlock looked mystified when Sherrin mentioned to him that she was meeting Molly for coffee the following afternoon.

"All our lives people have been telling us we needed to make more friends, Lock. Now that I finally have, you look like you are questioning my choice. Why?" Sherrin peered at him over the equipment strewn table in the Baker Street flat.

Sherlock moved the microscope aside and pulled the partially disassembled mobile and tiny screwdriver out of her hands. "I was not questioning your making of a friend, I was just wondering 'why Molly'?"

Sherrin shrugged, "Why not? She's your friend."

"Yes," he readily admitted, "she is. She believed in me when no one else did and she was vital to helping me fake my death. But, Beth, why do you like her?"

"For that reason, Lock, for that very reason. She believed in you and risked her reputation, and ultimately, her career for you." She reached out and squeezed his hand. "I like people that are kind to my brother. Plus, she's sweet and she listens when I go off on a tangent or begin waxing enthusiastic on the virtues of a fast processor or the ingeniousness of a sandbox game."

"Your time away ruined you, Beth. Video games are so mundane and pointless," Sherlock lips moved in a moue of distaste.

Sherrin laughed, because she knew he would never understand. Sherlock declined to delve into the world of gaming because he found it a waste of time and boring. For amusement he did experiments and deduced the hell out of random strangers, often offending the hell out of them, too. He was energized by the process. Unfortunately, she was often drained by interaction with the real world and preferred to recharge her batteries by spending time alone reading or playing games. "On this, I think we can agree to disagree."

"Yes, that might be wise. Mummy did always say that for two people so much alike, we are so vastly different." He picked up the menus from the counter, "Although, our tastes in food is quite similar. Italian or Chinese?"

Sherrin's eyes lit up, "Ooh, Dim Sum!"

Sherlock smirked, "You always want Dim Sum."

"Yes, same as you, you berk." Sherrin stood up and stretched across the table to place a kiss on Sherlock's forehead. "If you will call for the Dim Sum, I will text Angelo to send dessert and a bottle of his best Champagne."

"Champagne? With Dim Sum?" he looked at her quizzically.

"I find it goes well, but it's your call," she said, not caring one way or the other.

"Angelo has several fine champagnes but his proseccos are better."

"Alright. Here, use my phone." Sherrin pulled it from her pocket and held it out for him to use.

Sherlock waved her off, "I have my own phone."

"I know, but I haven't put it back together yet." She grinned at his look of annoyance as she indicated the dismantled phone he had taken from her hands minutes earlier. Apparently he had been too intent on the microscope slides to notice she had nicked his phone and taken it apart just to have something to do.


	18. Chapter 18

Jasper's was a quaint coffee shop that shared it's space with a bookshop catering to those with a preference for something other than the latest bestseller. Sherrin made a mental note to come back some time soon and peruse their shelves at her leisure. Just passing through to the table at which Molly sat, she noticed a tome on the political climate preceding the fall of the Roman Empire that would be perfect for Mycroft's birthday present and a book on the psychology of serial killers that would interest her twin. Maybe she could wipe out her Christmas buying list while she was at it.

Molly greeted her warmly and remarked on Sherrin's choice of dress for the day. "That's a lovely, flattering fit."

"Thank's, it was a gift from Mummy. She and Daddy just got back from Paris," Sherrin said almost shyly. "It's perfect for work, but to be honest, I usually can't wait to get home and change into my jeans and a T-shirt."

"I'm the same way. The best part of the day is showering and putting on my softest, most comfortable pyjamas," Molly said conspiratorially. "So, how was your work day? Did you do anything exciting?" Molly flinched as if she realized she had said something wrong. "I mean, I know you probably can't say what you did, but I was just wondering how your day was in general. Whether it was a good day or a bad day. I mean if you can say even that...I'm sorry, I'm rambling. I am just glad you could come. To get coffee, I mean. With me. I mean...Oh, sorry, I should just shut up now." Molly cheeks reddened and she averted her gaze.

Sherrin lay her hand over Molly's and gave it a little squeeze before pulling it back. Molly Hooper was turning out to be surprisingly intuitive. "You know don't you? Not enough people give you credit, but you are quite observant."

Molly's head snapped up at the non-sequitur, her cheeks still flushed. "What?"

"You know I work for the government, don't you?" Sherrin said quietly.

Molly nodded. She looked around to make sure there was no one close enough to overhear before whispering, "I know your older brother, Mycroft, works for the government. And Sherlock sometimes works for them, although he doesn't like to. I've noticed that you always take calls from work in private and you never mention details about what you do, so I just figured you most likely work for them, too."

"You are right, Molly. I can't tell you any more than that my official title is 'Technician' and I mostly work with computers. I like to take them apart and I am quite good at writing code."

"I noticed you talk about computers quite a bit." Molly sat upright and looked almost gleeful. "Oh, you might be able to help me. I keep getting a blue screen on my laptop that says my hard drive has an error. I looked up how to try to fix it, but I don't really understand what it wants me to do. You wouldn't look at it sometime, would you? I haven't been able to update my blog in ages."

Sherrin scooped up her coffee and her handbag and slid out of the booth. "Oh, I'd be glad to. Come on, let's do it now."

Molly followed her out of the shop and stared in wonder when Sherrin raised an arm and a cab appeared almost out of nowhere. "How do you do that?" Molly asked quietly when they were seated in the back of the cab and she was sure the driver's attention was on the road. "I can never get them to stop so quickly for me."

Sherrin laughed, "It's all a matter of attitude and posture. You have to hold your head high, keep your back straight and make yourself as tall as you can. The biggest part of it is to do it with confidence," Sherrin paused a second, as if thinking, "or better yet, arrogance. They will stop every time if you act as if you know they will. Arrogance often comes along with money, and money means a bigger tip. They tend to pass you by if you act timid."

Molly sighed, shoulders slumping. "They seldom stop for me. It's just not in my nature to be so aggressive."

Sherrin put her hand over Molly's again and gave another little squeeze, "It's not in mine either. I prefer to remain unnoticed. But over the years I've learned I had to act this way to keep myself safe or get what I want. You just have to pretend it's what you are. Plus, if you are wearing a dress, move one of your legs forward and thrust your chest out as you reach up with your arm. If they see a little bit of leg or the curve of your breasts under your clothes they are more likely to stop. It's still a man's world, unfortunately, and you have to appeal to their weakness to get ahead."

After a stop at a run down electronics shop  
owned by a tiny man called 'Tank', They sat down at Molly's kitchen table and Sherrin proceed to carefully disembowel the computer.

Sherrin worked quietly, only occasionally asking Molly to hand her a part or hold a tool for her. It was a comfortable silence and Molly couldn't help but stare at Sherrin's long fingers as her hands moved with such deft, precise movements. It really did reminded Molly of a dissection. Instead of muscles, organs and blood vessels, Sherrin worked with circuit board, processors and wires.

"There," Sherrin said before the hour was gone, "all done. You've got a new hard drive and I upgraded your memory while I had the case open. I also installed a few programs that I have on my own computers and now you've got the best virus and malware protection there is. Plus a few add-ons that will make updating your blog easier."

"Oh Sherrin, thank you so much," Molly exclaimed, and in her excitement she leaned forward and pulled her friend into a hug, brushing a kiss across Sherrin's lips before she even thought about it.


	19. Chapter 19

At Sherrin's surprised gasp Molly scrambled back in horror, upsetting the chair on which she had been sitting. "I'm so sorry! I shouldn't have! I didn't mean to." She buried her face in her hands, too mortified to look Sherrin in the eye. "I'm so sorry," she said again, her voice thick with tears.

Sherrin, momentarily stunned, replayed the last five seconds over and over in her mind, paying attention to every detail until she finally came to the conclusion that yes, Molly, her friend Molly, had just kissed her. It was not a quick peck on the cheek like some female friends were wont to do, nor was it a passionate snog that often accompanied groping hands and intense sexual need. No, the kiss Molly bestowed upon her was a sweet and gentle brush of lips against hers. It was something meaningful that might occur between lovers. She and Daniel had exchanged such kisses. Sometimes they had been a prelude to sex and sometimes they had not. In both cases, however, it had conveyed deep affection for the other.

But why did Molly kiss her? Did Molly fancy her or was it just a knee-jerk reaction to someone doing something nice? No, she seriously doubted it was just a reaction. The hug may have been such a thing, but the kiss certainly would not have been. If John or Lestrade had done her a favor, she doubted Molly would have kissed them. Had she, somewhere in the past, given Sherlock such a kiss?

What about Sherlock? Oh, Sherlock! Now that was something to think about. It was common knowledge that Molly fancied him. Did Molly want Sherrin's affection because she was the next best thing if Molly could not have him? Did she covet the Holmes name or the intelligence to which it was associated? Well, if that was the case she could have pursued Mycroft. He was equally unattached as Sherrin. Or did she project her affection on Sherrin in hopes of making Sherlock jealous?

No. No! Such guile was not in Molly's nature. She was one of the kindest and most honest individuals that Sherrin had ever encountered. Then what was Molly's true motivation for such an intimate gesture? Was Molly something other than heterosexual and harbouring romantic feelings for Sherrin? Or had Sherrin misinterpreted the kiss as something more when it was simply a friendly gesture expressed in an overly dramatic way? No, Molly would have simply been embarrassed if it was just an overemphasized friendly gesture. Instead, Molly was crying quietly into her hands. That must mean it was a romantic gesture, one that possibly Molly did not mean to express openly.

Sherrin could hear Molly crying despite being distracted by her internal monologue. "Oh shit! Molly is crying!" Sherrin's attention snapped back to the overt world and the weeping woman before her. How long had she been inside her own head, trying to figure out Molly's possible motives? Surely not a minute, although it was cruel of her to have let Molly suffer through even those few seconds of silence.

"Shh, Molly, shh," Sherrin crooned as she stood and drew the woman into an embrace. "I'm not mad. Please don't cry."

Molly stood stiffly in Sherrin's arms, her face still hidden by her hands. "It was a mistake...I know you're not...It was just...sorry. I'm so sorry!"

Sherrin could hardly understand the words as they were muted by Molly's hands over her face. She had to get Molly to calm down so they could discuss the matter. Sherrin stepped back and slid her fingers around Molly's wrists. She tugged gently, pulling Molly's hands away. "Please Molly, don't do this. Don't hide from me," she whispered. "Please, look at me."

Molly shook her head and let out another gasping sob, absolutely refusing to look at the hurt and disgust that were surely in her friends eyes. 'Good going,' Molly thought, 'you've destroyed another great friendship! Why don't you just give up trying to make friends, you are obviously pants at it!'

Sherrin cupped Molly's face in her hands, wiping the tears away with her thumbs. "Molly, please open your eyes and look at me. I'm not mad at all. I just want to talk about what happened."

Molly sniffed and raised her head, dreading the moment she made eye contact. She could not stand the thought of looking into those beautiful eyes and seeing disapproval or disappointment in their depths. It took almost all her strength to meet Sherrin's gaze and what she saw surprised her.

"That's better," Sherrin sighed in relief, letting the corners of her mouth tip upwards in just the barest hint of a smile. "I'm not mad, Molly. But, I am curious. Why did you kiss me?"

Molly took a breath and whispered, "I've wanted to do that since I turned around and found you standing in my morgue with your cheekbones and your bloody designer shoes with matching handbag."

"Idiot! If you want to borrow the shoes, all you have to do is ask." Sherrin laughed softly.

"But, you're not gay," Molly protested.

"No," Sherrin agreed, sliding her hand into Molly's and entwining their fingers. "But I didn't know I liked sushi until I tried it for the first time, either."

"Then you don't mind being kissed by another female?" Molly stammered staring at their joined hands in disbelief.

"Not at all," Sherrin declared and leaned in to capture Molly's mouth with her own.


	20. Chapter 20

Just how much does the average human breast weigh? According to a quick internet search, the average A-cup weighs about two-hundred thirty-five grams or eleven pancakes, although why someone would want to know the equivalent in pancakes was beyond Sherrin's ability to comprehend. Comparing breasts to pancakes was like comparing apples to tea kettles, utterly ridiculous. Equating breasts with grapefruit (or oranges, in Molly's case) seemed like the logical choice. Pancakes were flat and full of air. Citrus fruit, however, were roughly the same shape of a breast, fit easily in the palm of one's hand, and their density was not unlike a breast's when squeezed.

Sherrin liked citrus fruit. And she thought she might like breasts, too. But, what was she intended to do with them? Her past experiences were of little use, as few of her male lovers had had more than a passing interest in the stimulation of their own nipples, preferring Sherrin shift her focus much farther south. She knew what to do with a cock and bollocks. That was easy: insert tab A into slot B and create as much friction as possible until someone had an orgasm. There were multiple ways to do that one. But, neither she nor Molly had tabs, just slots. A partner with breasts and a vagina was new to her. She had no idea how to make love to a woman and felt somewhat like a well-informed but inexperienced virgin, knowing the mechanics of the thing but not exactly sure how to put it into practice.

The set of breasts around which Sherrin's hands currently were cupped was an exquisite pair, although she was not sure she was qualified to make that proclamation considering this was only the second pair she'd had the privilege to cradle in her palms, the first being her own. She hefted them in her hands and thought that the estimated weight seemed reasonably accurate. She debated letting go to compare the weight of her own, but at Molly's pleased hum, she decided against it. Ah-ha! Maybe this was where the advantage of a same-sex relationship came into play! She knew what she liked from a lover so logically she should be able to anticipate things that Molly would like. Bending her head forward, she nuzzled the back of Molly's neck as she stroked her thumbs over Molly's already erect nipples.

Molly squirmed in Sherrin's lap, letting out a breathy, "Oh!" in response. Sherrin took that as a positive sign and gave each dark, delicate pap a gentle twist. Molly's inarticulate squeak made Sherrin smile. That was certainly well received. What else would Molly like? Would she let Sherrin suckle at her breast like a newborn babe? Would she possibly return the favour? Maybe for the sake of science, she should note her partner's reactions to various types of stimulation (genital to genital, oral to genital, penetrative, etc.) and make a spreadsheet to keep in her Mind Palace. She could use the data to guide their lovemaking. If she assigned a numeric value to Molly's response to certain stimuli, then she could use the matrix to predict...

"Sherrin, you think too much," Molly giggled, leaning her head back to catch Sherrin's mouth in a filthy kiss that had Sherrin's nipples tingling where they were pressed against her new lover's back. "Quit analyzing and just enjoy!"

* * *

Sherrin pulled her hair up and wrapped the elastic around it, creating a messy bun on the top of her head. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?" He hummed, not looking up from where he studied the items spread across the tabletop.

"Do you think it might be easier or harder to please a same-sex lover than an opposite-sex one?"

Sherlock picked up an oddly shaped piece and tried to interlock it with another oddly shaped piece but unceremoniously dropped both when it was apparent they were not compatible. He put his hands on his hips and glowered down at the table. "Sherrin, I hardly think I am the appropriate one to ask. I've only had sex with a woman twice. The first time was at Uni and both I and my partner were under the influence of drugs and alcohol. The second time was an attempt to get a bit of information I needed to assist me in bringing down Moriarty's network. Neither time did I put much thought or effort into the act. Why?"

"Oh," Sherrin sighed and thoughtfully turned over the puzzle piece she held in her fingers. "This is all new to me and I'm not sure if I am doing it right."

"Did you try organizing Molly's responses to your efforts into a chart or spreadsheet?"

"I tried, but Molly told me I was thinking too much and then proceeded to snog me senseless."

Sherlock nodded absently, attempting to connect another two pieces. "Yes, John had a similar reaction. He said I wasn't allowed to bring my brain into our bed. Now, I just do what feels good at the moment."

"I kind of figured that was what I was going to have to do." Sherrin straightened and walked around to stand beside Sherlock, her arms folded across her chest.

Sherlock glanced at her, noticing the scowl that marred her features. "What?" He stepped back and mirrored her pose, looking from her to the mess scattered before them.

"Sherlock, I am always up for a challenge, but this is ridiculous," Sherrin waved a hand over the one-thousand five-hundred puzzle pieces spread over the table top. "We've been working for three hours and have put eight pieces together and I'm not sure one of them really does fit. What idiot tries to work a jigsaw puzzle with the picture face down? Let's turn it over and start again."

Sherlock huffed, "Alright, but if you tell John we wasted three hours putting eight pieces together I will tell Molly you came to me for sexual advice."

Sherrin laughed and pulled her brother into a hug, "Agreed! And Sherlock, in case I forget to tell you, I love you!"

Sherlock returned the hug with equal fervour, "I love you, too! Now, hurry up and turn all the pieces over before John gets home."


	21. Chapter 21

"Well, well," Mycroft drawled, staring down at where his umbrella tip dug into the plush bedroom rug. "It seems you never cease to surprise me, Sherrin."

"Fuck off, Mycroft," Sherrin mumbled sleepily into the pillow. "And be quiet about it, she just got off."

"Um, yes. I would imagine so." Mycroft's voice was quiet but Sherrin didn't miss the amusement in his tone. At least he had the courtesy to keep his eyes averted, although he had shifted his focus from the rug to his manicure. "Do Mummy and Daddy know?"

Sherrin rolled her eyes, giving up hope that he would do the decent thing and just leave. Carefully she slid out from under the arm Molly had draped across her waist and out of bed, striding purposefully past Mycroft to grab her dressing gown from the chair by the window. Damn him if he got more than an eyeful of her nude form, she didn't ask him to come barging into her bedroom this early in the morning. Tugging the cloth tightly around her frame, she marched to the bedroom door and motioned for him to pass through. Despite her anger, she eased the door shut behind them after looking back to make sure Molly still slept.

Once in the kitchen, where she was fairly sure Molly could not be awakened by their voices, she rounded on her brother, wagging a finger in his face. "Work, Mycroft, she just got off work! A double shift in fact, although it's really none of your business," she huffed. "She worked her usual shift in the morgue then volunteered to stay over and help A&E for an additional six or seven hours. It seems some idiot took out their political and religious fanaticism on innocent pedestrians and motorists in central London yesterday. Molly was kind enough to help the already short staffed department. I believe she saved several lives."

"Yes, how noble. Do Mummy and Daddy know?" Mycroft repeated, looking quite smug.

"Do they know what?" Sherrin growled, though she turned her back and began pulling out the fixings for tea. If she was going to have to explain her life choices she was at least going to have the comfort of a good cup of tea. From the corner of her eye she could make out Mycroft leaning his umbrella against the kitchen wall and moving to the cabinet where she kept the bread.

"That you have a new partner?" Mycroft asked as he slid bread into the toaster.

"No, they don't know," Sherrin said hesitantly. "I was waiting to see how things worked out before I..."

"Told them you are in a relationship," Mycroft offered, then added after a pause, "with someone that has been infatuated with your brother for years?"

"Yes," Sherrin murmured quietly. "She says this is different from what she felt for Sherlock. Please don't make it something it's not."

Mycroft looked down his nose at her and she felt more naked than she had in the bedroom a few minutes ago. She assumed he was trying to figure out if she actually believed what she had just said. She didn't know what his conclusions were, he kept his expression neutral. Instead of verbalising his deductions he waved in the general direction of the refrigerator, "Do you have any marmalade or jam?"

"Both," Sherrin said, turning to pull a jar out of the cabinet. "But this is better. Sherlock sent me some of his latest batch of honey. You are welcome to try it."

"When did he start keeping bees again?" Mycroft let his lips form a smile, remembering how fond of his bees Sherlock had been when they were growing up. Sherlock would spend whole afternoons tending to the hives and studying the bee's patterns as they went about their work.

"Mrs Hudson let him put a hive on the roof of the flat last summer. She had read an article about the declining bee population and approached Sherlock. He was absolutely thrilled to have her make the offer."

The kettle clicked off and Sherrin went about pouring the water and moving everything to the table. Mycroft put the toast on plates and then pulled the butter from the refrigerator. They ate in amicable silence, enjoying the delicate flavor of the honey that they put both on their bread and in their tea.

When she was finished, Sherrin put her cup and plate in the sink and leant against it. "You aren't going to pull her into one of your bloody black cars and have a chat with her are you, Mycroft?" Sherrin chewed on her bottom lip worriedly. "Because, I really like her and I'd prefer it if you wouldn't scare her off."

Mycroft glanced at his cell phone, wondering if he should text Anthea to reschedule his first meeting of the day. "I have no plans to do so. Miss Hooper has already proven to be a valuable asset to our family and I do not believe she would cause you any intentional harm, although we should have her sign a confidentiality agreement since she is intimate with an employee of MI6. I would, however, like to ask if Mummy and Daddy know about your..."

"Bisexuality?" Sherrin said at the same time Mycroft said, "sexual preferences."

Mycroft nodded, "Yes."

"No, I've told them nothing, although, I think Daddy saw me kiss Fleur Babineaux when I was seven years old, or maybe it was eight." Sherrin smiled at the memory. "Sherlock dared me to do it. I asked him if he wanted to kiss her too, but he declined. He said girls were boring, and that he'd rather kiss Benton. I wanted to kiss Benton, too."

Mycroft frowned, "Benton? The groundskeeper at Musgrave Hall?"

Sherrin nodded, "Yes. Benton helped us build the treehouse that summer and Sherlock was fascinated with him after that. I think Sherlock knew he was gay, even back then."

"Have there been other Fleur Babineauxs over the years? Another girl you kissed, though maybe not on a dare?" Now that he knew Sherrin's sexuality, Mycroft searched his memories for any events involving Sherrin that should have alerted him to her preferences.

"No," Sherrin sat back down at the table, and began to trace the grain of the wood with her finger. "I didn't realize I liked women that way until the day Molly kissed me. I knew I had caught myself staring at another woman's cleavage or curve of a hip more than once in my life, but I didn't really think it meant anything. I don't actually look at women the same way I do men. Sure, I can look at a woman and think, 'oh, she's pretty'. But I don't necessarily find myself attracted to her because of it. I think I need to have an emotional connection for that to happen."

"And you have never had this connection with anyone but Miss Hooper?" Mycroft was curious to hear more about his sister. "And Daniel,of course," he added, watching a look of intense sadness cross her features.

"God, I miss him," Sherrin shuddered, turning her face away and pressing her fingertips against her eyes to stop the tears that threatened to form.

Mycroft sat patiently, letting her grieve, and after a minute or two, she sniffed and looked up. "There was someone once. She was my friend. I think I might have even loved her. I see that now, even though I didn't then."

"It was while you were away?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes, her name was Nasima Badrashi. I was working for her brother, in Pakistan, helping him set up a network for his company. It was one of the few, entirely legal jobs I took. Since I had no husband or male family member with me, Nasima was always present when Salah and I would meet to discuss business. She was very kind to me. She taught me Pashto and Dari, and how to wear a hijab." Sherrin stared into her tea. "I still have two scarves she gave me."

"You do not keep in contact with Miss Badrashi?" Mycroft asked, getting up to place his cup and plate in the sink. Then he moved to stand beside her chair, lingering in her personal space.

"No. Although, her brother tells me she is married now and has three beautiful little girls." Sherrin smiled, thinking of how good a mother Nasima must be. She leant her head back to rest on Mycroft's hip. "Is there someone in your life, Mycroft? Someone who's company you enjoy?"

Mycroft met her eyes, bringing a hand down to stroke her head and Sherrin leaned into the contact like a cat. "Yes, there is someone that occasionally shares my bed, if that is what you are asking. Though, I find I enjoy their company both in and out of the bedroom."

Sherrin smiled, "Good. I'm happy for you."

Mycroft didn't reply, he just kept stroking her hair.

"Mycroft," Sherrin's soft query interrupted his thoughts, "why are you here?"

Mycroft stepped back, sad that the moment had passed, but content that it had happened. "I would like to ask a favour of you. I brought you a laptop, liberated from a person of interest. My team has been unable to crack the encryption to retrieve any data. I was thinking that you might be able to do what my team could not. Are you up to the challenge?"

"I'm always up for a challenge." Sherrin grinned, getting up to follow Mycroft to the sitting room where he had left the case holding the item in question.

Three hours later, Sherrin handed the same laptop to Anthea. "I disabled all the security protocols giving your team unrestricted access. I think they will find the content quite interesting."

With words of thanks, Anthea departed and Sherrin closed the door.

"You look nice," Molly said from where she stood in the kitchen doorway, sipping the glass of lemonade Sherrin had just poured for herself and wearing nothing but the dressing gown Sherrin had traded for jeans and a T-shirt after Mycroft left. Molly's hair was mussed from sleep and she had a crease from the pillow running across her left cheek.

Sherrin didn't know whether it made her look debauched or adorable. "Not as nice as you look half naked in my dressing gown. I hope we didn't wake you. Mycroft's PA came to pick up something he asked me to look into."

"No, I've been awake for a bit. I was just debating whether or not I actually wanted to get up. Will you come back to bed with me?" Molly asked holding out a hand.

"I'm not sleepy."

"Silly loon!" Molly giggled. "I'm not sleepy, either. Come to bed!"

* * *

AN: Please feel free to leave comments on the story, they feed the muse. I would love to hear what you like or don't like and any suggestions at to where you would like to see the story go. Thanks for stopping by to read.


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: Just a random drabble, I felt like something lighthearted.

* * *

John looked across the table to where Sherlock sat intently studying a case file Lestrade had dropped off earlier. "Might as well try it. All they can do is get mad and pout quietly for an hour or two. It won't be much different from this." John shrugged and raised his eyes to see Molly's set gleaming quietly with mischievousness as she watched Sherrin pry a bit of circuit board from the partially disembowelled laptop.

"If they notice and get upset, we'll just tell them it was just a social experiment," Molly said, the corners of her mouth curling upward.

"Alright, they actually might appreciate the effort if you tell them that. Let's do it. Ready?" John waited for Molly's nod before bending to set the cup of tea at Sherrin's elbow as Molly did the same to Sherlock on the other side of the table.

"Thank you, Love," the twins uttered simultaneously, leaning over to place a kiss on the tea bringer's cheek without taking their eyes off their work.

Molly and John tiptoed merrily out of the kitchen, closing the sliding doors behind them. Only once seated on the couch and picking up their own mug did they let out quiet giggles. "You were right," John raised his mug in salute.

"I told you," Molly said proudly. "I told you they wouldn't even notice."

"I know," John huffed in amusement. "I thought Sherrin might have noticed my stubble, but she didn't."

"You would have thought that Sherlock would have noticed my lack of stubble. But, I guess they both are pretty unobservant when they are so focused."

"Yeah," John grinned. Yes, Molly was definitely showing a side he had never seen before. He couldn't wait to see what kind of prank she thought up next.

Molly sipped her tea thoughtfully. "I wonder what would happen if we get Lestrade and Mrs Hudson to stand in for us next time?"


	23. Chapter 23

AN: Sorry for the long time since I last posted anything. Life has been incredibly complicated for the last year. I've got three chapters mostly written that I am planning on publishing, but they still need a lot of work. In the meantime, I have this snippet that came to mind the other day. I hope you like it.

* * *

"What?"

At Sherrin's startled gasp, Sherlock couldn't help but smirk. From the background music, he was able to surmise exactly what internet video she had stumbled across.

"Sherlock?" Sherrin looked over her shoulder to where he was stretched out on her sofa. "Did you know that your landlady is in a video on YouTube?"

"Yes," he chuckled. "I've seen it."

"Damn!" Sherrin drawled. "She really knows how to work the pole. The way she moves, so flexible and ..."

Sherrin was suddenly silent, but Sherlock could almost hear her brain connecting the pieces of information.

Seconds later, she sighed, "Oh! That explains the bad hip!"


	24. Chapter 24

When Mycroft receives the alert that the perimeter around his mansion has been breached, he is saying his goodbyes to an old friend. When he receives the warning that the security system inside the house has been turned off, his car is leaving the Palace gates. By the time he gets the notification that the wine cellar door has been opened, he is fuming.

Damn Sherlock and his lockpicks. Damn John for going to a medical conference in Edinburgh and leaving a bored Sherlock home alone. And damn himself for giving Mrs Grieves, his housekeeper, the evening off. If Sherlock gets hold of the classified documents in his desk or the 1998 bottle of Pinot Noir he is saving for Christmas, he is going to commit fratricide. He snaps at his driver to hurry and drops his mobile onto the seat next to him. There is no reason to dial Sherlock's number, he knows his brother won't pick up. Besides, why alert him to the fact that he is about to be caught red-handed. Does he assume Mycroft won't notice that his home is being invaded?

As soon as Timothy brings the car to a stop in front of the house, Mycroft is out and striding to the door. He falters as his key rotates in the lock with little resistance, signalling that the bolt has already been turned. That's unusual, Sherlock usually enters through the French doors of the solarium. Grasping his umbrella tighter, he pushes the door inward and surveys the front hall. Nothing seems amiss, and the security panel glows green, signalling it has been disarmed rather than taken offline altogether. Again, not Sherlock's modus operandi. He lets his shoulders relax with the realization that it is not his brother's trickery at play, nor is it someone with malevolent intent. This has Sherrin's style written all over it. He sighs. Why can't his siblings be like every other person on the planet and ring before they visit?

Mycroft waits in the foyer as Timothy performs a quick sweep of the house. The man returns a few minutes later, his gun already tucked away. "The house is secure, sir. All points of entry, except for this one, remain closed and locked. The guest bedroom nearest your own room is occupied by your sister. She didn't wake when I called her name, but neither did she seem to be in any distress. I assume you'd prefer to sort her out yourself."

"Yes, thank you. Goodnight, Tim."

"Goodnight, sir."

Mycroft trudges his way up the staircase, leaning heavily on his umbrella. He is not at all surprised by his siblings' visits. One or the other of them will randomly pop in at any hour of the day or night with no forewarning what so ever. Years ago, when Sherlock was using, his brother would break in, sleep off whatever high he was on, take what cash was to be had and then disappear without a word. Mycroft, in a twisted sort of way, didn't mind all that much. He minded the getting high part, but at least he knew his brother was alive and, for a little while, safe. Fortunately, since Sherlock met the good DI Lestrade those days are gone. Now, when Sherlock visits it is usually because he wants something. He shows up, often with Dr Watson in tow, asking for some sort of assistance or information and then is gone as quickly as he had appeared.

Sherrin is another matter. Her visits tend to be less frequent, but longer in duration. Two months ago, she had come knocking at his door in the middle of a rainstorm seeking advice on procuring government funding for some sort of ultra-secure, ultra-fast data transfer device she had invented. He had provided several suggestions about whom to contact along with possible pressure points to exploit in her quest for funding. With a grin, she had padded off to the solarium to organize her schematics and compose her proposal. Mycroft had bid her goodnight around midnight. He wasn't surprised the next morning when he had to remove her laptop from its precarious perch on the foot of the chaise lounge where she had fallen asleep. He'd covered her with a throw and pressed a kiss to her brow. He had been surprised, however, when he'd arrived home that evening to find her in his kitchen, pulling a Shepherd's Pie out of the oven. She had stayed through dinner and dessert and even watched an episode of Doctor Who with him. Only then did she pick up her bag and disappear into the night. He supposes she must have been bored or lonely.

He has no idea why she is here now, but he smiles as he remembers the story of Goldilocks, and raps on the open door. When no one answers, he steps through. Like the little girl in the story, his sister lays curled in the centre of the great bed, the duvet tangled around her calves and feet.

"Sherrin," he calls, grasping her foot and giving it a gentle shake to facilitate the waking process. "Sherrin, love, wake up."

Instead of rousing, she curls further inward, and he notices the goosebumps on her arms and legs. The house does seem a little chilly, he thinks. Delicately disentangling the duvet from Sherrin's legs, he slides it upward and tucks it around her shoulders. After only a moment or two, her posture relaxes, and she uncurls her limbs. He starts to walk away but stops mid-step. He has a nagging feeling that there is something not right with her.

Tiny details become apparent now that he takes the time to focus. Her curls seem to be more unruly than normal. Has she forgotten to put product in her hair or has she been running her fingers through her tresses, disturbing the usual ringlets that crown her head? Bending closer to study her face, he notices fine lines around her eyes and across the bridge of her nose, lines that aren't wrinkles. Did she break her glasses or lose a contact lens? Because it looks like she has been squinting for a prolonged period of time. The reddened areas near her temple suggest she has been massaging her scalp. Ah! A headache!

Mycroft exits the room and comes back a short while later, carrying a tray laden with a steaming cup of broth, two slices of toast, four small white tablets and two wrapped chocolate truffles from the box he keeps in the top drawer of his desk. With a little prodding and more than a little grumbling on her part, he has her sitting up in bed, squinting against the light coming in from the hall. "How many days?" he whispers.

"Four, but it only became intolerable this afternoon," she mumbles and sniffs the air. "Not hungry. Nauseated."

He gives her a pointed look and places the toast in her hand. "You will need something on your stomach to keep the aspirin and paracetamol from upsetting it. Now eat, even if it is only a bite or two. If you go straight back to sleep, you won't have time to vomit it back up."

She shrugs and does what he says, nibbling timidly at the toast and washing it down with sips of broth. The contrast of the bland, dry bread with the salty warmth of the broth does seem to settle her stomach enough that she is unafraid to take the medicine. "Why aspirin?" she whispers as she rolls one of the pills between her thumb and forefinger. "You know that the risk of ischemic stroke during or after a migraine, while present, is minimal. Especially when the subject is a non-smoker and not on oral contraceptives."

"Yes, I am aware. But, as I have a whole new bottle that I am unable to take, and it does offer some protection against a clot, I don't see why you shouldn't at least try it. Studies suggest that the efficacy of aspirin is somewhat better than ibuprofen in the treatment of migraines, anyway."

"Yes, that's agreeable, but I don't smoke and I'm not on the pill, so the risk is…" Sherrin drops the pill and fists her hands in her hair. "See, even my own voice is too loud," she whimpers. "Ugh! I hate this fucking headache."

Mycroft rolls his eyes and holds out the pill she dropped. "Take the damn pill, Sherrin!"

She glares at him but takes the pills with the rest of the broth, then gives a heaving sigh. "Great, now I need to pee." She stumbles out of bed and into the en-suite bathroom. "You know, Mycroft, I'm not sure if my head wants to explode or implode." Her voice echoes through the partially open door.

Mycroft turns and busies himself with brushing the crumbs from the sheets. "Yes. Well, let's hope it does neither. I just had the walls re-papered," he chuckles quietly. He straightens the duvet and fluffs the pillow. "Do you have the-um," he stammers over his shoulder, "supplies you need?"

"I do," Sherrin replied, oblivious to her brother's sudden discomfort on the subject of feminine hygiene products.

"Good, that's good," he whispers to himself.

After a few minutes, she washes her hands and exits the bathroom. He notices her gait is still a little unsteady and she is continuing to rub circles at her temples. Taking up the tea tray, he turns to leave the room. "Oh, I left the chocolate on the bedside table if you should feel like it. I hope you sleep well, love."

"Thanks, Myc," she slurs her words as she climbs into the bed and snuggles under the duvet. "I hope so, too."

The next morning Sherrin wakes with a start, momentarily forgetting where she is. It isn't until she stretches and feels the twinge of muscle tension in her neck and back that she remembers the storm that had pummeled her brain the day before, leaving her somewhat incapacitated and coming to her big brother for help. She tilts her head to the left, then the right, waiting for the thudding bass inside her head to begin again. Instead, she finds only a dull ache and a washed out feeling that reminds her of her last bout of the flu. 'Well,' she thinks, 'it's better than it was.'

She slides out of bed and makes her way to the loo. Her movements are slow and deliberate, and the glimpse of herself in the mirror reminds her of the zombies in those movies Mycroft likes to watch when he thinks no one is about. Her hair is a big ball of frizz and she sweeps it up and into a messy bun using the scrunchie that remains on her wrist from the day before. The dark circles under her eyes are going to have to stay because there is no way in hell she's going to put makeup on.

She pads out of the bathroom after relieving herself and brushing her teeth to dress and thinks of heading down in search of breakfast. It's Saturday and Sherrin knows Mrs Greives doesn't work on weekends. Mycroft is surely in London by now, but she also knows that he would not leave her to fend for herself if he thought she might not yet be feeling well. She knows this as well as she knows Tim is sitting in that great big kitchen downstairs sipping coffee and waiting for her to give some sign of life. Sherrin thinks she might be able to talk him into going out and getting takeaway breakfast if she promises not to tell Mycroft that he left her alone. She stops to scoop up the two pieces of chocolate from the table and exits the room.

The upstairs gallery in Mycroft's house has always made Sherrin uneasy with its portraits of long-dead ancestors. She knows it is childish, but she can't help but feel that the eyes are watching her. It's so silly to be over thirty and afraid of paintings, after all, they are nothing but bright pigment on canvas. She wishes Mycroft would replace them with some of his own artwork. His landscapes and still lifes would brighten the atmosphere tremendously.

She jumps and gives a startled gasp when a growl echoes through the corridor. Her heart thuds in her chest, and she feels a spike of pain shoot through her sore head. The logical part of her brain registers the sound as belonging to her brother. She takes the few steps further along and pops her head inside the open door of Mycroft's bedroom. He sits on the edge of his bed in his half-buttoned shirt and his pants, fighting to get a strange looking sock onto his bare leg. It's then that her brain, previously mired down in her own misery, makes the connection.

"You need a little help with those?" she queries, from where she leans against the doorframe, arms folded across her chest and a grin on her face. "I hear they are a bitch to get on."

Mycroft's head pops up and he jerks the bedclothes over his bare thighs. "Sherrin, I'm not decent. Leave now," he demands.

The look of embarrassment and anger on his face does nothing to deter her. She chuckles and comes to sit on the floor at his feet. "Decent? Mycroft, you saw me in nothing but one of Daniel's T-shirts and my knickers last night."

"This is different," he fumes.

Sherrin chuckles and grabs the TED stocking out of his hand. She shakes it out, grasps it at the heel and then folds the leg of it down over the foot portion. "It really isn't. Myc, it's certainly not the first time I've seen a man in his pants and it's not the first time I've seen you in yours, brother mine. Here, slide your foot in first and then you can pull the sock right up your calf. It's much easier this way. Didn't they teach you this?" Sherrin adjusts the top of the sock well below the bend of his knee and reaches out for the other. She knows it's not the lack of trousers that has upset him. "So how long have you had the DVT?"

Mycroft's back straightens, and he scowls down at her as she puts the stocking on his other leg, "It's not a DVT! It's superficial."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh god, Mycroft, a blood clot is a blood clot! It is bad enough that they put you on the rat poison. Don't think I didn't catch the part about you not being able to take the aspirin or you using that bloody umbrella slash sword as a walking stick. I'm not stupid."

Mycroft lets his shoulders relax now that his secret is out. "Yes, Sherrin, but you missed the pricks on my fingers from the lab work."

"You've always been a prick, Mycroft." She grins up at him and holds out a hand for him to pull her up off the floor. "No, I didn't miss the pricks. I thought maybe you were checking your blood sugar. Diabetes does run in the family."

Once Sherrin is on her feet, he points at the door, "Out, so I can put on my trousers!"

Five minutes later Mycroft strolls into the dining room and groans. "Do you ever plan on growing up and acting normal? Sometimes you are worse than Sherlock."

Sherrin smirks from where she sits lotus style in the middle of the ridiculously long dining room table, scrolling through her phone. "Nope. Not planning on it. Normal is boring."

"Yes, so I've been told. Now, get off the table. It's not ladylike to walk on the furniture."

Because Mycroft was kind enough to wake her in the middle of the night to take more pain medicine, because he hasn't asked about the alarm on the wine cellar door and because he is her big brother that tries to look after her, she gives in to her impish impulses. She stands up, straightens her spine, extends her arms above her head and slowly stretches upward until she is balancing on the tips of her toes. She tiptoes to the edge of the table where she bows with a graceful sweep of her arms, then lowers herself until her feet are flat on the surface of the table. She holds out her arms and giggles at his eye roll. He places his hands around her waist and lifts her down to the floor. Instead of stepping away, she folds herself against his chest and hums in satisfaction when he wraps his arms around her and props his chin atop her head.

"It's a shame you choose to play with computers rather than dance. You could be a prima ballerina with the Royal Ballet without even trying."

She shrugs. "And you could exhibit your paintings in any art gallery in the world, yet you choose to run the British Empire."

"Touché," he mumbles into her hair and tightens the hug. "I'm glad you are feeling better."

"Me too."

The dining room is quiet, except for the faint creaking of the floorboards as they sway. Sherrin smiles and listens to her brother's heartbeat where her cheek is pressed against his chest. "I hated you, you know," she says quietly and without a hint of malice.

He flinches at the non-sequitur and pulls back to arm's length. His fingers tighten around her biceps. "What?"

"Past tense, Myc. Past tense." Sherrin smiles and pulls out of his grasp. "I hated you for the longest time. But I don't anymore."

Uncertain how to take her remarks, Mycroft decides to let it slide and follows her to the kitchen where Tim is sitting at the table reading the paper and sipping a cup of coffee.

"Good morning, Miss. I am glad to see you are feeling better." Tim folds up his paper and takes up his cup, rising to return to his living quarters off the kitchen.

"Thanks. Me, too. We're going to have breakfast, Tim. Care to join us?" Sherrin likes Tim. He is fiercely loyal and helps Mrs Greives look after Mycroft, who is worse than Sherlock about remembering his transport has basic needs.

"Thank you, Ma'am, but I've already eaten." Tim addresses Mycroft next. "Mum left some fresh eggs and mushrooms in the refrigerator, Sir. She thought you might do a little cooking this weekend."

"Yes, I think I will. I'll have to thank her when she gets back Monday." Tim slips off to his room, shutting the door behind him and Mycroft turns to Sherrin. "Crepes or pancakes?"

"Oh, crepes please!" Sherrin's mouth waters at the thought. Mycroft likes to cook gourmet meals and his recipe box contains at least one recipe from every country he has ever visited. She knows his crepe recipe comes from one of the greatest chefs in France. She sets the table and waits patiently as he sets to work, making both a savoury and a sweet filling.

When the meal is ready, Mycroft sets a plate in front of her. He pauses at her side and reaches out to touch a ringlet at the nape of her neck that has fallen out of her makeshift bun. "You always did like the colour blue. What has M said about it?"

"M doesn't know. You can't see it unless I have my hair up and I seldom wear it up at work."

"And Quentin?"

Sherrin rolls her eyes. "He knows. And he doesn't care, Myc. He wouldn't care if it was dyed like a rainbow, as long as I act like a professional and get my job done."

Mycroft nods and takes a seat across from her. "You always were a free spirit, much like Uncle Rudy."

Sharron smiles fondly, Rudy had been her favourite uncle. "Yeah, he was the one that taught me how to walk in high heels."

Mycroft glances under the table where Sherrin's bare feet curl around the legs of her chair. He arches an eyebrow at her and says, "Yes, we know how that worked out. I've not seen you in anything but flats or barefoot for two months and seventeen days."

"Just because I don't like to wear them, because they are bloody uncomfortable by the way, doesn't mean that I'm not graceful when I do walk in them." Sherrin takes a bite of crepe, sighing as she lets the flavours roll over her tongue. Mushrooms are one of her favourite foods and Mycroft has paired them well with spinach, goat cheese and just a touch of garlic.

"What are your plans for the day? Do you feel well enough to go home or will you be staying on?" Mycroft inquires, sipping his coffee and wishing he had added more sugar. "I have a new recipe I would like to try, and I know how much you love udon noodles."

"Is that how you got the clot? Flying from London to Tokyo?"

"Yes. The other way around though. It seems twelve hours in a plane was a bit much for my circulatory system to handle."

Sherrin nods. "Tempting as it sounds, I think I am going to pass on the offer. I wanted to drive down to Devon and visit with Eurus."

Mycroft's fork drops from his fingers and punctuates his surprise with a resounding clatter. "Why on earth would you want to do that?"

Sherrin lets out a sigh. "Because she's my sister and sometimes I want to tell her things."

"You do realize you can't actually talk with her. She was never really alive."

Ice man. She sees how someone could come to call him that. She puts down her fork and steeples her fingers in front of her mouth, elbows on the table top. "She may have been stillborn, Mycroft, but she did live even if it was ever so briefly and only in our mother's womb. And she was my sister. My only sister. Sometimes I want to talk to her, tell her things one only tells a sister. I want to tell her how happy being with Molly makes me. I also want to tell her how I get so mad at Daniel for dying that I can't see straight. Last week I went shopping and I found a strapless bra that is really, really comfortable and I want to tell her how happy that makes me because strapless bras are not generally comfortable. She needs to know these things. I need her to know those things. Don't you ever want to go and tell her how your day went?"

Mycroft nods. "I am more inclined to go visit Uncle Rudy's grave."

"Uncle Rudy taught me how to walk in heels and how to accessorize, but he taught you how to rule Britain." Sherrin smiles at the absurdity of the thought.

"How many times do I have to remind you and everyone else that I hold a minor position in the British Government," Mycroft replies petulantly.

"No, no, no, Mycroft." Sherrin laughs. "You don't get to give me that bullshit. I know better. I'm MI6, remember. Even M refers to you as 'The British Government'. I think you could run for Prime Minister but then you would be giving up some of your power."

"I think you exaggerate, Sherri."

"No, I don't. I was exiled and almost executed for treason seventeen years ago, now I walk the halls at Vauxhall Cross unimpeded. I sometimes get withering looks, but no one has the bollocks to challenge my presence. I am not an idiot. I know the only reason I am allowed such privilege is because my big brother IS, in essence, the ruler of our great nation."

Mycroft having finished the last of his crepe, pushes the plate aside. "While that may be the only reason you were allowed into that building initially, the reason you are allowed to stay is your own doing. You have saved countless lives with your quick fingers and your extraordinary mind. M boasts that he has only half his greatest agents in the field, the other half sit in a dank concrete bunker well below street level. He mentioned that he prefers the teal over the magenta, and has no objections to rainbow coloured hair as long as you continue to do your job well."

"Of course, he bloody knows." She feels her cheeks redden and rises to carry their plates to the sink. "I'm sorry I put you in a bad position all those years ago. I was just trying to save Sherlock."

Mycroft steps up behind her and wraps his arms around her. That's twice in one day. More emotion than she's seen from him since she surprised him in the dining room two years ago. "I know. And I applaud your effort, although I wish you had come to me first."

"I will next time." Sherrin reaches into the pocket of her tunic and holds out one of the truffles. "Chocolate?"

"Excellent." Mycroft tightens his arms around her before moving away, truffle in hand.

Two hours later, Sherrin is standing at the door, rucksack on her back. "Thank you for taking care of me, Mycroft."

"Thank you for helping me with the stockings. You won't tell Mummy, will you? You know how she worries."

"I know. Your secret's safe with me. See you next weekend. We can do a Doctor Who marathon. I'll bring take-away."

"Yes, sounds delightful. Say 'Hello' to Eurus for me?"

"I will. Goodbye, Mycroft." Sherrin kisses his cheek and moves down the drive towards the cab waiting at the gate.

Mycroft starts to turn but remembers something from the day before. "Sherrin," he calls. "Why were you in the wine cellar?"

Sherrin turns to face him, walking backwards with a mischievous glint in her eye. "It's your present. Go and see!" With a parting wave, she turns on her heel and sprints down the drive.

Mycroft shuts the door behind her and goes straight to the wine cellar. In the very centre of the room, perched on stacked crates is a hideously festive gift bag, decked out in bright ribbons and overflowing with tissue paper. A shiny balloon declaring "Happy Birthday!" floats gaily above. He approaches warily and reaches down into the bag to pull out a bottle of 2001 Saint-Emilion and two books. The first is a tome on the political climate circa the fall of the Roman empire, a particular interest of his. The other is a book titled: The Seduction of Curves: The Lines of Beauty That Connect Mathematics, Art, and the Nude.

A note sticking out of the top of the book is written in his sister's hand. He decides she must have already been in the throes of the migraine when she wrote it because the letters are printed awkwardly, sloping down the page. Not at all her usual neat script. "Happy Birthday, big brother. I am glad to have you in my life again. Don't save the wine for a special occasion. It deserves to be enjoyed, not left sitting on a shelf waiting for the right moment. Any moment is the right moment if you choose it to be. Take the book about Rome with you when you travel so you won't be bored and for god's sake get out your sketch pad or your brushes and canvas, and ask your paramour to pose nude for you. It's been too long since you indulged your creative side. Love, Sherrin."

Mycroft places the gifts back in the bag and carries them to the kitchen, where he pulls a wineglass out of the rack. He stops and contemplates Sherrin's note. He hasn't drawn in two years, painted in almost five. He has missed it. 'Why not?' he thinks. With one hand he pulls out a second wineglass and with the other, he pulls out his mobile.

Notes:

Menstrual migraines are a real thing and can last anywhere from four to seven days.

DVT stands for deep vein thrombosis, a blood clot in one of the larger veins of the extremities, usually the legs.

The 'rat poison' Sherrin refers to is the drug Warfarin. It keeps our blood from forming clots. It is the main ingredient in most rat poisons.

TED or thromboembolic deterrent stockings are compression socks that help push blood back to the heart, decreasing the chances of developing a blood clot in the legs.

Mycroft shouldn't be eating much spinach. Vitamin K is a vital part of blood clotting and an antidote to blood thinners such as Warfarin. Spinach is high in Vitamin K. Babies are given shots of vitamin K at birth to get their clotting factors started, as the substance does not cross the placenta and they are born deficient. Lack of treatment can lead to Hemorrhagic Disease of the newborn.

You can decide if Mycroft's paramour is male or female. I have my own headcanon. What's yours?


	25. Chapter 25

So far, Christmas Eve at Musgrave Hall had gone exceedingly well. It was past tea time and the first cross word had yet to be spoken. The reason, despite Mummy's hopes that her adult children were finally above the childish feuding that frequently occurred between such strong-willed siblings, was due more to the fact that they had an audience and knew that if they squabbled in front of guests Mummy would turn monstrous, rather than any desire to get along. Aunts, uncles and cousins from both sides of the family had been invited to celebrate the resurrection of not one but two children. Sherrin and Sherlock had protested that they had been home more than a year now, two in Sherlock's case and that if their relatives were so anxious to reunite with them they had had more than ample time to do so already.

Mummy shook them off with a "Hush, you!" and sent the twins and Mycroft, by association, off to separate corners of the house to make ready for guests. John, who had stood idly by with an expression of barely contained mirth, was treated with a sampling of both Daddy's Christmas Stollen and Mummy's Christmas pudding while the first of the guests began to arrive.

After stocking the last bathroom with fresh towels, Sherrin wandered into the green bedroom where Sherlock was lighting a fire in the fireplace. She sat on the end of the freshly made bed and watched her brother. "You will rescue me, won't you?"

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at her as he prodded a log with the iron poker, "Hmm?"

"You'll keep them from overwhelming me with all the meaningless chit-chat and dull catching up they will want to do. You know they will want to know what we both got up to while we were away. The fewer people that know that the better," and after a moment's hesitation, she added, "in both our cases."

Sherlock placed a hand on the floor and with a pained grunt, pushed himself up from the crouch he had been in. He dusted his hands with the flannel Sherrin held out and rebuttoned his suit jacket. "I will, if you will."

She nodded, then asked softly. "Is the stab wound in your thigh bothering you?"

Sherlock nodded. "It is. It does that when the weather turns cold," Slowly, he turned to face her as a fever fueled half-memory stirred at the back of his mind. He let his eyes scan her face, looking for some sort of clarification. "It's an old wound and you've not seen it. How did you know I'd been stabbed there?"

Sherrin shrugged and averted her eyes. "I think John must have mentioned it." She didn't feel like going into the story right now. He would either figure it out or she would tell him when the moment was right.

Sherlock frowned. John, of course, had seen the wound but had never specifically asked about the circumstances surrounding it. He had simply taken it as one of Sherlock's many scars acquired during 'The Great Hiatus', as John's blog readers had come to term Sherlock's time away. When he had some quiet time to himself, he was going to peruse the halls of his mind palace and sort out that particular memory relating to the injury and examine it closer.

For now, it could wait. Sounds of laughter drifted up from below and Sherlock held out his open hand. "I talked to Quentin last night. He has promised to bring along that double-O boyfriend of his. If anyone gets too inquisitive regarding either of us or if third cousin Ginny gets too preachy regarding the abomination of same-sex relationships, they vowed to stage a rescue mission and transport us to London with no one the wiser."

"Lock, you do know Bond drives a bloody two-seater Aston Martin, don't you?" Sherrin took the proffered hand and let him pull her to standing.

"Well, I guess we will just have to make the best of it then." Sherlock gave her hand a squeeze and led her out of the room.

* * *

Fighting the postprandial somnolence that tended to occur after a hearty meal, the family retired to the library for after dinner drinks where the furnishings tended to be more forgiving if one fell into a doze. Sherlock and Sherrin were sitting by the fire discussing iPhone versus Android technology with Quentin while Mummy and Uncle Albert sat on the sofa debating whether Grand-mere Vernet had used Sherry or Port in her Plum Pudding recipe. Uncle Calvin, Bond and a few of the younger cousins had drifted off to the parlour and were enjoying a round of billiards. John was being cordial and sat with Aunt Genevieve, as she sat at the piano and took requests from the children and a few of the adults. Daddy was tending to the fire and refilling drinks while Mycroft was off somewhere, most likely keeping his fingers on the pulse of the nation. Sherrin didn't blame him, it was a bit too crowded for her taste and she was beginning to feel just the least bit claustrophobic.

She slid her fingers out of Sherlock's grasp and rose from her perch on the arm of his chair, "I'm just going to step outside for a minute. I need some fresh air."

Sherlock nodded, frowning at Aunt Genevieve's less than perfect attempt to play Ave Maria. "Take the Belstaff, it's hanging by the door."

"I have my own coat."

He didn't bother looking up from the fire, "Yes. It is upstairs, and I doubt you will bother going to get it. The temperature has dropped three degrees since sunset and the wind has increased markedly in that time, also. Take the damn coat, Beth."

"Cheeky bastard," she grinned and turned on her heel. She had missed bantering with her brothers while she was away. Taking the coat off the hook in the kitchen, she slipped it on and inhaled deeply. It smelled like Chinese takeaway, Lock's aftershave, a bit like John's, and something she had a hard time identifying. Remembering that John had said he had to drag Sherlock out of St. Bart's to make the train, she assumed it was formaldehyde.

The cold air bit at her cheeks and ankles the moment she stepped outside, and she was glad for the Belstaff's warmth. Lock was right, she probably would not have bothered to run upstairs to get her coat. She was no stranger to being ill-clothed for the weather, but that didn't mean she liked being cold when she could do otherwise.

"The crowded room is making you anxious." Mycroft crooned from where he leant against the rain barrel just to the left of the door.

"A little bit," She slipped under the arm he held out. It was so good to be home and she felt utterly safe snuggled up to her big brother. There had been many a time in the past that she had wished Mycroft would find her and whisk her away from whatever danger she was facing. Sometimes she had just wanted to get his advice or listen to him read aloud to her like he did when she was little. "May I?" She nodded to the lit cigarette he held.

He looked down at her disapprovingly but held it out anyway. It had been a long time since she had smoked. She'd never made it a regular habit, just something she had indulged in occasionally when bored or in social situations where it seemed prudent to fit in.

"Just the one drag," he said. "I hardly think the good doctor would approve of you smoking in your condition."

She nodded and handed it back after one pull, not at all surprised he had guessed. "How?"

Mycroft inhaled and let the smoke out slowly, before dropping the fag and crushing it under his shoe. "You turned positively green this morning when Mummy set your breakfast plate in front of you, even though she had fixed all your favourites. I was unsure, but my suspicions were confirmed when you declined the wine with dinner. That particular Pinot Noir used to be your favourite."

Mycroft wrapped both arms around her and she hummed her reply, "As usual, you're right."

"I assume John is the father of the child?"

"He is," she sighed and listened to the comforting beat of his heart that lay so close beneath her cheek. "How on earth did you deduce that?"

"You stole food off his plate at dinner. That indicates a certain level of intimacy not usually found between brother and sister-in-law. It was obvious. You really must work on your deductive reasoning, Sherrin."

"Yeah, and you should learn to write your own code and hack a mainframe, Mycroft," she quipped. "I won't be available to do your bidding when I take maternity leave."

"Oh?" he looked down his nose at her. "You intend to take the pregnancy to term?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Suddenly worried, Sherrin stepped out of his arms and frowned up at him. "You aren't going to have John murdered and dumped in the Thames, are you?"

"I'm considering it," Mycroft said icily. "It will save Sherlock the trouble."

"Don't, Mycroft!" she gasped. "Sherlock knows. He knows and approves."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed, looking for evidence to substantiate her claim. "He knows the two of you are having an affair and you are pregnant with John's child? I find it hard to believe he approves."

"It's not what you think, Myc. They want to start a family and I offered to be their gestational surrogate. John and I have been trying to conceive for the last several months." She felt her cheeks redden and she suddenly found interest in her manicure. "My pregnancy test was positive last week."

Mycroft nodded. "When do you plan on telling Mummy and Daddy?"

Sherrin shrugged, reminding him of when she had been little and oh, so shy. "We were going to tell them today, but I had no idea that she was going to invite the whole family to spend the day. I would rather tell them in private."

"Yes, that would be best," Mycroft said absently. He pulled out his phone and began to type. "Have you told your Miss Hooper?"

"She's known from the start. She's been a great support and is very excited." Sherrin gave a nervous laugh. "You're not texting Anthea to have John picked up once he's back in London, are you?" She was not entirely sure that Mycroft wouldn't do such a thing.

Mycroft smiled, not his fake diplomatic smile, but a genuine one. "Sherrin, despite what others may think, I do like my brother-in-law. He is the best thing that has ever happened to Sherlock. John understands him in a way no one, save you, can. No, I was just clearing my schedule for the third week in July."

Sherrin's brow wrinkled. "July? I'm not due until August twelfth."

"Yes, but I see you delivering July eighteenth to the twentieth. Come now, Mummy will come looking for us if we don't get back soon." He kissed her cheek and turned toward the door.

She pulled the wool tighter around her and turned to follow. "Alright, smart-arse. Boy or girl?"

"I, contrary to popular belief, am not omniscient." He smirked, holding the door open for her.

Sherrin kissed his cheek as she moved by him, "Oh, yes you are. Near enough anyway. Boy or girl? And, you had better not say both. Sherlock's already said if it's twins, I have to keep one of them."


End file.
